All These Things
by kasviel
Summary: M/M Slash. Alternate Universe. Contains spanking.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**

This is the result of a procedural marathon that lasted me on and off through the past few years. I'm a big fan of crime dramas and procedurals, and I've watched a bit of practically everything. I also like the less vanilla procedural format series, such as White Collar, Person of Interest, and The X-Files. CSI:NY is one of my favorite straight crime dramas. I finished running through all nine seasons over the holiday season of 2013. So, there are spoilers for the entirety of CSI: New York, be warned. It is a great crime drama and I highly recommend it. If you ask me, it was the best CSI, and I've seen enough of all of them to judge.

This is a crime drama story, but it still reads like a romantic slash drama, predominantly. It centers around Mac Taylor, Danny Messer, and Don Flack. It begins in the canon world, but then switches to Alternate Universe, where the bulk of the story takes place. It is set around the time of the middle part of Season Six, which took place in early 2010 (think around the time Danny's badge was stolen and he decided it was a good idea to keep that fact to himself). The "B-Version" label for the Alternate Reality is a little nod to "Fringe". Two canceled shows coming together in one fan fiction! It isn't a crossover, though, and the CSI team won't be solving any crimes on a Zeppelin. Much to Adam's regret, no doubt.

The Alternate Universe is vastly different from the canon, however. Most changes will be explained throughout the story, but some worth noting are: Flack's sister committed suicide, Flack still isn't over the Angell murder and his subsequent shooting of an unarmed suspect, Mac and Danny have been in a relationship for a while, the stolen badge plot is being replaced by another case, Danny never had the injury that half-paralyzed him temporarily, and, of course, the sexual preferences of the three main characters. Mac Taylor never married, but he lost a partner in the '90s during the fallout of the AIDS epidemic. B-version Mac is gay, but severely closeted, one of the Don't Ask, Don't Tell leftovers. B-version Danny Messer is a bisexual, pretends to be comfortable with who he's with regardless of their gender, but still refuses to bring anyone home to his family that isn't a female. B-version Don Flack (Faux Flack?) was in love with Jessica Angell, he considers himself straight, but he has had one 'experiment', and he is still bi-curious (whether he admits it to himself or not). He is also pretty kinky. They all have their Out Of Character moments, but this is intentional: these are alternate universe versions of the characters, so their personalities do vary from the canon. They would have to, to put them in these situations. I do believe changing any character's sexuality automatically makes them OOC. So, for me, further tweaking them doesn't seem so far a stretch, or an option that should be outside a fanfic writer's arsenal. The purpose of fanfic is to bend the characters just enough to achieve your personal fantasy of them, after all. Not a defense on my part, only an explanation. A necessary one, given that I did tweak these characters a bit more than even is my usual.

I realize it's a rather obscure desire to see the world of CSI slashed, but I have obscure ideas. There is mature language, sexual themes, and kink. There is a murder case in this story, so there will be some descriptions of violence. Given the nature of the villains of this story, there will be homosexual slurs. Obviously, these do not reflect this longtime slash fan's views, they are purely for the sake of depicting realistically hateful intolerant extremists.

* * *

**Useful Terms**

Vic : 'Victim'

COD : Cause of Death

TOD : Time of Death

Premortem : Occurring before death

Postmortem : Occurring after death

**Chain of Command**

Mac Taylor : Detective, 1st Grade : Director, NYC Crime Lab

Stella Bonasera : Detective, 1st Grade : Day Shift Assistant Supervisor

Danny Messer : Detective, 3rd Grade : Crime Scene Investigator

Lindsay Monroe : Detective, 3rd Grade : Crime Scene Investigator

Dr. Sheldon Hawkes : Detective, 3rd Grade : Medical Examiner

Donald Flack, Jr. : Detective Specialist, 1st Grade : Homicide Investigator

Adam Ross : Laboratory Technician

Dr. Sid Hammerback : Medical Examiner

* * *

**00**

**10:12 PM, January 12, 2010**

**Tavern on the Avenue, New York, New York**

The city was a study in contradiction. Detective Mac Taylor had been to many places in his life, but he had yet to find a place to rival New York's delicate layers of convolution. At once, the city could envelop and expel you, isolate you without giving you a moment's privacy. It was nothing like the brutal honesty of war, where intentions were swift and succinct. In war, the lines were drawn clearly and definitely. In the city, one's footing was not so sure. New York could love you to an ecstasy of pain, it could also pleasure you into numbness. It was a city with a million concubines, not one of which could ever own its heart.

Perhaps it was that aloofness of the city that made moments like these so precious, Mac reflected. People in small towns cherished the familiarity, the certainty of knowing their neighbors. Mac could understand that, but he found it did not compare to finding familiarity in this apathetic place. It was so much rarer to look around a room and know nearly every face in it, and that much more significant.

Mac watched them all in the reflection of the window for a minute, before joining the crowd. Danny Messer was engaged in a drinking competition with his wife, Lindsay. Sheldon Hawkes and Sid Hammerback were regaling some young techs with tales from autopsy. Stella turned from her place at the bar, sensing his entrance, apparently. She flashed him a warm smile of greeting. It was a scene of enjoyment, of hard-earned peace. Fleeting as he knew these moments tended to be, Mac was all the more grateful for it.

"No! No, no, no! No way!"

"Look, would you just _listen _to me for a minute, I'm not saying-"

"I don't care what you _are _saying, I'm tellin' you, that's not possible!"

"Would you just-"

"No! Stop! I don't wanna hear it!"

Mac sighed, searching out the voices in the crowded bar. He should have known there could be no peace unless he had mediated it personally. He found Donald 'Don' Flack, Jr. at the bar, glowering at Adam Ross. Mac stood before the two men, a bit amused by this odd pairing. Neither one noticed him.

"I'm not saying anything about science," Don went on. "All I'm saying is, just because _some _theories have been proven, doesn't mean any crazy idea is going to turn out to be true."

"But it _isn't_ crazy!" Adam protested. "If you would just let me explain it to you-"

"I'm not an idiot, I get what you're saying," Don retorted, a bit defensively. Though he was great friends with most of the CSI team, Don, a Homicide Detective, was sometimes irritated by their condescension, whether intentional or not. "And _I'm _saying that it's _ridiculous_."

"No, no, no, no, no," Adam said quickly. "I don't think you do understand. If you did, you wouldn't just jump into this baseless denial of simple-"

Mac saw Don's eyes flash, widening just slightly. He decided to intervene before Flack's temper was riled.

"I always wondered what a conversation between the two of you would look like," Mac said, causing the two to finally notice him. "I guess I should be more careful about what I wish for."

Adam started, "We were just-"

Flack jumped in over him with, "It's not my fault, this guy's just-"

"Okay, okay," Mac said, waving his hands at them both. "Why don't you start with what it is that you're arguing about?"

"The Multiverse."

Flack rolled his eyes. With a cynical snort, he picked up his beer from the table and took a lengthy swig.

"The what?" Mac asked.

"The Multiple Universe Theory," Adam explained excitedly. "You know, in physics, there is a hypothesis that reality is multi-layered, maybe even infinitely so."

"That for every possible outcome of circumstances and events, there exists a separate universe that is the sum of those outcomes," Mac said. "These sets of dimensions are the links in the chain, so to speak, of a super-universe, hence the 'Multiverse'. I know the theory. But why are you arguing over it?"

"Because it's insane!" Flack burst out. "There's _one _reality, _one _life, _one _world. God created-"

"Oh, oh, come on," Adam interrupted. "Seriously? You're going to bring God into this?"

Flack, raised Catholic, blinked in affronted surprise. Mac could feel a headache coming on. He took a seat beside Flack and motioned to the bartender for a second beer.

"I mean, really?" Adam laughed. "You really believe that, that _God_- what? That 'He' created the world in seven days, and-and threw humans down here for eating an apple?"

"I … I don't know!" Flack exclaimed.

Mac eyed Don with surprise. The man's face was slightly flushed, and he turned to frown into his beer and take another long drink. Was he actually sheepish? Embarrassed?

"I don't know what happened to create reality, for God's sake!" Flack said, braced by the swallow of beer. "How the hell should I know? But I do know that He, or whoever or _what_ever started this whole thing, did not just make _everything_ possible! What would be the point? If our choices have all been made somewhere else, all our lives lived as differently as possible somewhere else, all our deaths already done, what would be the point of just one of those lives?"

Adam took a moment to sort through this unscientific rebuttal of his precious hypothesis. He shook his head fervently.

"It isn't a question of morality, it's mechanics," he said. "If I created the universe, I would want redundancy."

"_Why_?" Don asked, thoroughly baffled by now. "Redundancy is … it's boring."

"I mean redundancy of data, of existence," Adam explained. "And even if nothing is by sentient design, that doesn't matter. Nature itself is redundant- redundant, but minutely varied in millions of ways. It would make sense that reality would follow that same, universal pattern."

"No, it doesn't!"

"You're just saying that!" Adam said in frustration. "You're just insisting on fighting the idea, because- Why _are _you so opposed to it?"

Mac raised his eyebrows. He knew he should intervene again, but he was curious. Flack looked between them both, and drained his glass of beer. There was another emotion in his eyes now. Sorrow? Mac thought so. Don's eyes were hard and cynical when he was working, but entirely transparent when his guard was down.

"You think I wouldn't want that?" he asked quietly. "You think I wouldn't want there to be some … some reality where Jess was still alive? Some other dimension where she was never hurt?"

Adam's eyes went wide, and he shifted in his chair. _Awkward, _he thought, flooded with shame.

"Ah, hey, dude, I didn't mean- I mean, I didn't think about- I'm sorry."

"All those worlds with all those lives … 'Infinite', you said," Don said wistfully. His cynicism returned, and he snorted softly. "Yeah right."

"But if it were true … "

"Even if it were, it's no resolution," Don said stubbornly. "Where do all those existences end up when they're over? Are they ever over, or do we just keep existing in some other set of circumstances? No, no. For better or worse, this is it, this is what matters. And as for what happens when this is over, well … I … "

Mac and Adam were staring at him in expectation. Don frowned deeply, looking almost shy of the attention. He wondered how he had ended up spilling all this personal garbage while simply refuting some geek fantasy theory. He glanced at Mac for support.

"I believe Jess is in a better place," he said firmly. "Not some better _version _of this. No. A real, better place."

Adam opened his mouth, but Mac shot him a stern warning look. Flack turned back to his drink. Adam shut his mouth, scratching the back of his head anxiously. A glum silence fell over the men.

Don ordered another drink, this one stronger than beer, and shrugged off the seriousness. "Well, hey, but what do I know?" he said, trying to smile. "It is something to think about, another me running around out there. Another Mac."

Mac chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't think one's enough?"

"I'll bet in every version, Mac's a soldier or a cop," Don said. "Same here. A cop, I mean. I can't imagine being anything else."

"I don't think it would work like that," Adam persisted. "Every version could _not _be the same, there would be variations ranging from minor to major. When you consider the vast range of complexity involved in determining who a person is and what they do-"

Don ignored him, pondering out loud, "I wonder if there's a Danny that turned out to be a hoodlum."

"That's a horrible thing to say, Don," Mac chided him.

Flack only grinned. "You could see it, though, right?"

"Anyway, I'm sure that if there was a Multiverse, each reality would be balanced with the same ratio of give and take," Mac reasoned, avoiding answering Flack's question. "I can't speak to the afterlife, but I have a feeling that life, in any dimension, would never be perfect. A loss in this existence might not be a loss in another, but there may be other losses just as significant, if not more. And at the end of the day, even if we had a choice of all those different versions, I think we would all choose the very one we're living in."

"Why do you say that?" Adam asked.

"Because it's home," Mac said. "It's who we are, the sum of _our _choices and _our _circumstances. I would think any person would want to stick by what they've built out of their lives."

"Not any person," Adam murmured.

"Yeah, I don't know," Don agreed. He stared at his hands. "Things could always get worse, true, but … but if there were other circumstances, they could also get better. At least in the things that matter most, right?"

Mac squeezed his shoulder. Don gave him a weak smile, and resumed staring into his glass.

"Or they could just get batshit insane," Adam said. "People have been using the Multiverse concept for years. I mean, if you would read some of the Alternate Universe fan fiction that's out there on the internet, just some of the stuff they put in there is so-"

"We get it," Mac said flatly.

Adam grimaced. "You haven't read it. No, boss, I don't think you get it."

"Then, thank God for that," Mac said.

Don chuckled. "Amen."

* * *

**01**

**10:12 PM, January 12, 2010**

**McCullen's Avenue Tavern, New York, New York (B-Version)**

The city was a mess. Stella yanked her mass of curly hair back into a hair tie, using her elbow to shove open the bar's doors. The crisp night air gave way to an overwhelming bouquet of cigarette smoke, liquor, and closely-packed humanity. Stella blew out a sigh and breathed through her mouth, as if she were at a crime scene. This was the city, she reflected, the whole of it: one mass of angry, contentious, unsatisfied people, half-stupefied by whatever substances they used to escape.

She noticed Don Flack at a table in the corner of the pub, nursing a glass of liquor. Her heart sank a bit for her friend, but she knew better than to disturb him. At least Sheldon Hawkes had a date tonight, although it was the fourth girl he had ended up with this month- and the date appeared to be going no better than the previous ones had gone. _Online dating, the enemy of romance,_ Stella thought bitterly. She knew that particular disappointment from experience. The job left little room for any other kind of human contact, even in this overpopulated corner of the world.

It might be better to be disappointed quickly than having one's hopes dashed after they were firmly in place. Stella eyed Danny Messer chatting up Lindsay Monroe, and felt a flutter of anxiety. She did not want to see their pairing as a bad omen, but she could not help it. She had seen Danny in love, real, romance novel love, and this was not it. Lindsay was beaming at him, charmed and flattered by their closeness. Stella shoved her own opinions down. There was enough doom in this city without doling it out personally.

Still …

Stella sat down at the bar next to Mac Taylor. He greeted her with a smile, and she ordered her drink. The sight of the bartender/owner Sean McCullen, a constant fixture, was reassuring. It may not be home, but the CSI team spent enough time here to make it a small home away from home. With so many places to go in the city, the average New Yorker could build up a number of these small havens.

"Is that jealousy I see, Mac Taylor?" Stella teased Mac, watching him watch Danny and Lindsay out of the corners of his eyes.

Mac was startled from his spying. "What?" He glanced around. "Who?"

Stella gave him a look. Once Mac had pushed Danny from his mind, he got it. He gave Stella a rueful smile.

"No, no, that's done," he said. His posture relaxed, and he seemed to remember his beer. "Believe me, Stella, that is over with."

Stella leaned her face on a hand, studying him for a moment. He avoided her eyes, those uncannily piercing spheres. Nonetheless, he could feel her reading him.

"You don't feel anything at all, watching them?" Stella persisted. "You can't honestly think Danny is being sincere?"

"It's none of my business, Stella."

"Since when is Danny's business _not _your business?"

"Since we broke up," Mac said, a bit shortly. "You do remember that blessed event, don't you, Stella? It was, what? Nearly three years ago?"

"I remember, Mac," Stella said, not apologetic in the least. "I also remember all the times you two have gone back and forth since then. I get it, you can't forgive him, let alone trust him again. You know damn well I've had my own issues with trust."

"Those haven't exactly been comparable to mine," Mac reminded her. "You were betrayed by a criminal. You're free to go on hating without remorse."

"So, you _do_ have remorse."

"Yes, I do," Mac admitted. "I regret what happened with Danny every day. I always will. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to allow that regret to draw me back into an impossible situation."

"Is it really so impossible?" Stella asked. "I mean, you and Danny had what few of us ever get a chance at."

Mac took a deep drink. Stella put a hand on his arm, and he was forced to look at her again.

"You had love, Mac," she said. "The real deal, not whatever Danny is faking with Lindsay Monroe."

"Why are you so certain he's faking it?" Mac asked. "Do you think that just because he loved a man, that he could never love a woman? Danny has always been bisexual, Stella. That was one of the first problems we had: his refusal to give up women completely."

"Yes, and you tried that atrocious 'open couple' philosophy, I know," Stella said. "It has nothing to do with sexuality, though, Mac. It has to do with … Well, just _look_ at him! Does that look real to you?"

Mac could not help glancing over at Danny and Lindsay. He was laughing far too loudly, and everyone in the lab knew Lindsay was not a particularly funny person. Stella gave Mac a look that clearly said, _You see?_

"It's still none of my business," Mac said stubbornly.

"Oh, Mac," sighed Stella. "You know how this is going to end. He's going to break that poor woman's heart, and you two are just going to end up back together eventually."

"No. _No_, Stella, we're not," Mac said. "Danny and I tried everything. We went against all the enormous odds stacked against us. I'm surprised that we even lasted as long as we did, with all the crap he pulled."

"All his fault, huh?"

"I made mistakes," Mac said. He rattled the ice in his glass, gazing into it. "I won't deny that. But I never betrayed Danny as senselessly, as shamelessly as he betrayed me. I understand what he's been through, I understand him, but I can't … I just can't take him back. He's hurt me too much, Stella. It's just been … too much."

"So you're just going to let him do this?" Stella asked. "Wreck his own life just to prove a point? Hurt Lindsay in the process? That isn't like you, Mac."

"No, it's not, because being 'like me' is what's caused all this mess in the first place," Mac said heatedly. "I don't have Danny's luxury of being bisexual, Stella. I've lived with this my entire life. I went through the military, being this way. Don't Ask, Don't Tell was more than a policy to me, it was my way of life. And whatever the modern sentiment against it may be, it worked for me. I was kept from scrutiny, from hatred, and from judgment. Without the world shaping my opinion of myself, I was able to accept what I was, to judge myself without anyone else's bias clouding my mind."

Mac motioned for a refill of his beer.

"It was Danny who wanted to come out, at least to our friends," Mac said. "I did it for him. He wanted to end the open relationship, and let our friends know that we were a serious couple. I jeopardized everything about my lifestyle so that I could give him that freedom. And then, after all we had been through because of that decision, after everything we've built over these past years, he betrayed me. After I chose to embrace our lifestyle for him, he cheated on me with a woman. When he needed me the most, after his young neighbor was shot, he didn't grieve with me, he shut me out. I still don't know why he couldn't mourn with me, why he turned to Ruben's mother instead of me. He broke my heart, Stella, as cliché as that sounds."

"Well, that's Danny, isn't it?" Stella said, watching him. "A real heartbreaker."

Mac allowed himself to turn in their direction and watch Danny and Lindsay again. Finally, he finished his drink, and climbed down from the bar stool. He draped his jacket over his arm.

"You were right, Stella," he said. "Danny may not be my business, but my team still is. And if I can keep one of my team from having their heart broken the way mine was, I will."

"That's the Mac Taylor that I know," Stella said with a smile. "Give Danny a little extra hell for me, would you? I like Lindsay."

Mac returned her smile, though it faded the moment he turned in Danny's direction. He walked up beside Danny. Danny was too busy talking to notice him, but Lindsay looked startled by his sudden appearance. Danny followed suit when Mac grabbed him by the arm, mid-gesture.

"What?" Danny inquired, looking around. "What the- Mac? What is it?"

"We have to talk," Mac said. His grip on Danny's arm tightened. "**Now**."

Without answering any of Danny's questions, Mac pulled him out of the crowded bar. Fortunately, Danny was intoxicated enough not to put up a struggle. He huffed at the cold on the street, slinging on his jacket. Mac maneuvered him around the building to the alley between the pub and the neighboring building. There were some homeless people scattered up and down the tiny street, and it smelled like vomit and piss, but the spot was as private as one could hope for.

"What is this, Mac?" Danny asked. "What is this? What's the problem?"

"Danny, what are you doing?"

"Doing? What?" Danny shrugged, but he was suspicious and guarded. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me, I know you too well."

Danny's lips tightened into a line of grim defiance, and he raised his head just slightly. His eyes met Mac's with feigned earnestness mingled with caution. The look was so familiar that the night seemed to dissipate around Mac. It could have been any one of their nights arguing in the dark corners of the street, but it felt suddenly like the one that had started it all.

_I wrestled the grip of Danny's brother to claim Danny, and I won, _Mac recalled. _I freed him from the poisonous influence of his family, brought him back from the edge, nursed his wounds into healing, and … and found myself in love at the end of it all. I thought we both did. Was I wrong? I'll always wonder … _

Mac's palm felt warm from where he had grabbed Danny's arm. He closed the hand into a fist, whether to hold onto the warmth or submerge it, he did not know.

"I know you, Danny," Mac repeated. "And I know why you're doing this with Lindsay."

"Going with her, you mean?" Danny asked. "Why wouldn't I be? She's smart, she's beautiful … She's great, you know? I don't see what's the problem."

"The problem is, you don't love her, Danny."

Danny shifted his gaze aside briefly. "Well, it's still new. I mean, it's not even a year yet. Who knows how they feel that early, right?"

"_You_ know," Mac said. He suppressed a nostalgic smile that tugged the corners of his mouth for a brief second. "You're passionate, Danny, you always have been. You fall in love easily, and you're always completely sure of how you feel. It's why you do so many stupid, destructive things."

"Mac, that's not fair."

"Yes, it is," Mac said firmly. "You know it's the truth, and the truth may not be comfortable, but it's always fair. So tell me, truthfully, what are your intentions with Lindsay?"

"Montana? We're just having a good time. You remember what that's like, Mac?"

Mac ignored the jab. "You're not stupid, Danny. You see the way she looks at you, you know what it means. Has she said it yet? Has she said that she loves you?"

"What does this have to do with you?" Danny asked, skirting around the question. "Last I heard, we were over. You thinking of forgiving me, finally? Is that it? You want me back, but you're worried I'm taken?"

"_Are you _taken?"

Danny faltered. He bowed his head to hide his expression, muttering something. He looked back up, and the walls had fallen from his face. He looked younger, with his eyes so searching and needful.

"Not for you, Mac, you know that," he said. "If that means I'm wronging Lindsay, well, there it is."

Mac shook his head. "Danny-"

"I haven't misled her, I swear," Danny said. "She knows about us. She knows what you meant to me. Whatever she's hoping for, I've made it clear that … that if there's a chance for you and me, I'll take it."

Mac grunted, arms crossed.

"So is there, Mac?" Danny asked. "Is there a chance for us?"

"Danny … I can't," Mac said resolutely. He had to look away from the pleading look in Danny's round, expressive eyes. Their blue was inky in the dim winter moonlight, making them look almost dark. Mac swallowed. Even without seeing that look, he beheld it in his mind's eye. "I can't do this with you. Not again. Not ever."

"So you dragged me out here just to see what my intentions with Montana are?" Danny asked, partly amused and partly resentful. "I didn't realize you felt that fatherly protectiveness towards her."

"I try to look out for all my people, you know that."

"Huh."

Danny walked a step closer to Mac. Mac's first instinct was to back away, but he knew this would only encourage his ex-lover. Danny met his eyes evenly. He walked closer still, straight up to him, and put a hand on his arm. The touch stirred a miniature lifetime's worth of memories, all the moments of a life-changing love affair. It was a natural motion, a seamless, chaste joining of two bodies. Despite all that Danny had wronged him, his touch still managed to feel right.

"This isn't about Lindsay," Danny said knowingly. "You can dress your intentions up all you want, Mac, but we both know what this is about."

Mac was exasperated, but still mildly amused by Danny's confidence.

"And what is it about, Danny?" he asked, humoring him.

"Us," Danny said. His other hand rested on Mac's other arm, caressing slightly through his coat sleeve. "You're out here because you haven't given up on us, and you were worried that I have. Well, I'm telling you, Mac, I haven't. I never will. So now you know. And what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing, Danny," Mac sighed. He removed Danny's hands from his arms, giving one of them a short squeeze. "Absolutely nothing."

Danny opened his mouth to argue, but a phone ring interrupted him. Mac was grateful for the opportunity to distract himself from the dangerous territory of the conversation. It turned out that they both had calls. Minutes later, the team began to exit onto the street from the pub. Mac moved to join them, but Danny stopped him, grabbing his sleeve.

"Hey," he said. "This isn't over, Mac."

Before Mac could argue this fact, Danny went around him and strode out of the alley. Mac glanced at the night sky for help, but there was nothing above but the buildings and the stars.

* * *

"You're sure you're all right to handle this?"

Before getting into the unmarked car, Mac had been told by Stella that Don Flack had gone through a very unprofessional amount of drinks. This was the reason that Mac had let Stella take the rest of the team in the SUV, while he rode with Flack. He had offered to drive, but Flack had insisted that he was 'fine'.

Flack had been 'fine' for a while now. The previous year, his sister had committed suicide following an alcoholic downward spiral. Not very long ago, he had lost his girlfriend, Detective Jess Angell. The fallout of that incident had shattered all their lives temporarily, but Don's had completely fallen apart. He began showing up to work unshaven and in clothing slept in several days over, sometimes going missing while on duty. Even his trademark cynical sense of humor was absent. Nonetheless, he always met inquiry as to his state with an insistence that he was 'fine'.

"I'm fine," Flack said now, for the millionth time. "I only had one drink. I'm good."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Don glanced at Mac long enough to hold his eyes with a challenging glare. "You think I don't know how much I drank?"

Mac said nothing. Satisfied, Don turned his rather bleary blue eyes back to the road. Mac was always surprised at how easily Flack not only challenged, but outright fought with him whenever they disagreed. Given their history, he kept expecting Flack to finally end up intimidated by him, or respectful at the very least, but Flack remained obstinate.

As if he had read Mac's eyes in one of his glances, Don said, "What? You considering beating the truth out of me?"

Mac smirked, but shook his head. "No, I'll trust you. Don't make me give you a breathalyzer tonight, though. It may not end in your favor."

Flack glowered at him, though the look did not last very long. He broke into one of his grins, and turned his eyes back to the road.

"Damn you, Mac, don't threaten me," he said. "It makes me want to kiss you."

Mac chuckled, feeling a flush of warmth. His eyes went to the hand that had gripped Danny's, but the guilt had gone. He leaned back in the passenger seat, watching the road but seeing the past.

**[Four Years Ago]**

"_I've had it with him."_

_The declaration jarred Danny Messer from his work. He lifted his face from the microscope he had been peering into, and looked around the lab for the offending party. It was late, and the room was empty save for himself and Mac Taylor._

"_Who?" he asked._

_Mac turned to him from the evidence he had been going over. "Who else? Flack."_

"_Oh." Danny returned to the microscope, not very surprised at the news. "Is he still pissed over you busting that cop of his?"_

"_Yeah," Mac said wearily. "He's taking the passive aggressive approach, ignoring me at crime scenes, making remarks, being sarcastic- You know how Don is."_

_Danny grunted in agreement, unable to hide a touch of amusement. Mac Taylor and Don Flack were his best friends, he knew them well enough to have anticipated a situation like this coming about. Both were strong men that were used to giving orders that were obeyed without question, but other than that, they were as different as night and day. Danny had seen it before, men just alike enough to be worthy opponents, and different enough to make the path to reconciliation a long one. _

"_If he rolls his eyes at me one more time, I swear, I'll-" Mac stopped himself, grimacing. He returned to the evidence that he was processing. "I won't tolerate it, that's all."_

_Danny looked up again. Mac had a severely stern expression on his face, his mouth a thin, tight line. Danny shuddered, hastily returning to the microscope's less threatening view. He had seen that look before, and it never boded well. Mac was even-tempered and patient, until he felt unjustly wronged. When that happened, his righteous temper was a thing to be feared. _

At least that look's not for me,_ Danny thought. _For once.

* * *

_Don Flack did not end his passive aggressive grudge against Mac. In fact, he became all the more sarcastic and troublesome. Danny tried as best as he could to mediate the situation, but neither man paid him much attention. _

"_Never mind, Danny," Mac finally told him one day in the lab. There had been a glint in his hard green eyes. "I've thought of a solution, and you are going to help me carry it out."_

_A few days later, Flack was called to the lab late one night. He was planning on reading Mac the riot act about summoning him to and from the CSI labs at will, but he met Danny first. _

"_Hey, Don, can you help me with something?"_

_Flack was barely getting through the end of this very long day, and he was exhausted and frustrated. The last thing he wanted to do was waste his precious off-duty time assisting the CSI team with one of their ridiculously complicated tests. He could have sworn that every day at the CSI crime lab was like entering a science fair, and he had always hated science projects._

"_Can't it wait?" he asked irritably. "Mac just called me to pick something up."_

"_Yeah, Mac's there anyway," Danny said. "Come on. It'll just take a minute."_

_Danny tugged him by the sleeve, and Flack followed him. He didn't really know what else to do. _

"_Where's 'there'?" he asked. "And why does it have to be me? Isn't anyone else around?"_

"_Nah, it's a slow night," Danny said. "It's down in the garage, but it's not a car. We're just trying to figure out how it figured into the crime scene."_

"_How what figured into the crime scene?"_

_Danny didn't reply. Flack shook his head in annoyance. Danny usually seemed like a regular guy, but he was still a lab guy, and lab guys were always at least a little weird. He wondered if cramming all that dubious knowledge into your brain made it function differently, or if these people were simply born that way._

_The garage was quiet, the expanse lined with the autopsied bodies of cars involved in crimes. Some of the cars were worth Flack's yearly salary, others were worth more. Drug dealer's rides, he figured. He wondered if these hunks of metal and plastic really did seem worth spreading filth and death to the men that bought them. He was reminded of the cop that Mac had turned in for stealing cocaine from a bust, and he felt a jab of anger. The anger was unfocused, spread between Mac and himself. He was embarrassed that Mac had seen through one of his own people, that he had not, and the stigma it put upon the precinct. Damn it all! And damn Mac, too!_

"_Here we are."_

_It certainly was not a car. The object Danny had brought him to was a long bench. It was tall, reaching up to Flack's midsection. The frame was made of heavy, thick wood beams, stained a dark chestnut color, and the top of the bench was cushioned with leather-covered padding. _

"_So … what?" Flack inquired, baffled. "What? You want me to sit on that thing?"_

"_Not exactly," Danny said dryly. He walked around the bench and knelt before the front. He unbuckled leather straps that were bolted to the bottom of the front legs of the bench. There were also identical straps on the back legs, Don realized._

"_What are those … Oh. Oh!" Flack exclaimed in realization. He gave a nervous laugh. "No way, man. I'm not getting near that thing."_

"_What? You scared?" Danny teased, standing. "Come on. I've been trying to figure out the positioning the whole day. Help me out."_

"_Are you kidding me? No!" Flack protested. "Where's Mac? Did he put you up to this?"_

"_Of course not!"_

"_Why do you people always have to recreate everything?" Flack asked peevishly. "You take measurements and tons of pictures and do all your tests, and you still feel the need to recreate everything?"_

"_Some things have to be seen directly, right?" Danny said. _

"_Then why don't you get on it directly?"_

"_Because I'm not the victim's height," Danny explained, lifting a hand to Flack's forehead, some inches above his own. "You're about his size."_

"_This guy died on this thing?" Flack asked, eying the bench warily. "For real?"_

"_Yep."_

"_That is messed up," Flack marveled. He laughed. "What a way to go, right?"_

"_Little bit more pain than he paid for, I guess," Danny said. "Come on, look, you can have my cellphone. I won't take any pictures or anything. I just need to see someone on it to figure out, ah, directionality."_

_Fortunately, Flack was not forensic-minded, and did not ask what directionality Danny was referring to. He was by the bench, gingerly prodding the top with his fingers. Danny watched him, studiously suppressing the urge to laugh._

"_Fine," Don finally relented. He began taking off his jacket. "I'll do it. But just for a minute, all right? And if you take any pictures or call anyone, Danny, I swear to God, I will end you."_

_Flack awkwardly walked around the bench. To his chagrin, he felt his heartbeat speed up, and a light flush creep up his neck. He climbed onto the bench, lying across the padded top on his stomach. His stomach fluttered, and the flush deepened. As he settled his top half across the bench and let his lower torso hang over the end of it, he felt his slacks tighten across his backside. He felt unfathomably stupid._

_Danny felt an unwanted surge of blood course through his body, throbbing harder in some places than others. He grimaced, trying to stamp the feeling down, but it was a physical reaction, as unmovable as nature itself. Flack was pretty tall, but the bench accommodated his length perfectly. His limbs fell in perfect lines along the front and back legs, ankles and wrists hanging before the restraint straps. The end of the bench lilted upwards, propping his buttocks up just enough to display the fullness in a curve of vulnerability._

"_Nice," Danny murmured._

_The intonation in his voice made Flack look back over his shoulder at him. With the startled look in his blue eyes, his hair fallen a bit across the forehead, he looked surprisingly boyish. The flush had finished suffusing his neck with color, and was pinking his cheeks now. _

_Danny cleared his throat. He was in an open relationship with Mac Taylor, but they were very comfortably closeted to everyone they knew. He did not want to blow their cover now, and certainly not to Flack. _

"_I mean, that's exactly it, how the victim was … was found." He collected himself and came over beside Flack. "Yeah. Okay, put your head back down."_

"_Look, can't I- hey!"_

_Danny put a hand on the back of Flack's head and pushed his head down onto the bench. He knelt and looked up at him with a grin. Flack's expression was a mixture of glumness and resign._

"_Just a minute, I just gotta make sure it's exactly like the scene."_

"_Hurry up, will you?" Flack grumbled. "If someone comes in and sees this, I'm done."_

"_Don't worry, I locked the elevator down here," Danny assured him. "Now, the restraints. They were done like this."_

"_Danny, don't!"_

"_You still scared, Flack?"_

"_No! It's just- Hey, cut it out! I never said you could do that!"_

_Danny had strapped Flack's right wrist to the bench frame, and was working on the other one. Flack struggled, shaking the bench frame. The leather cuffs were very durable, and buckled too tightly to slip out of._

"_Cut it out! You wanna fall with this thing?" Danny warned. "I'm just trying to recreate the crime scene as closely as possible."_

"_Then why are you strapping me in so damn tightly?" Flack asked through gritted teeth. _

"_To see if the victim had a chance of escape," Danny said smoothly. "Can you get out of those?"_

_Flack tried the struggle once more. Danny could see the muscles of his arms tightening through his white shirt. When he failed to pull the straps off the bench, he tried to get at the buckles with his fingers. After three minutes of this, he heaved a heavy sigh._

"_No," he admitted._

"_Fantastic."_

_Flack scowled at him. Danny stood up and left from his view._

"_Now, he couldn't kick his way away, because the ankles were strapped down, too."_

"_Danny-"_

"_Just a minute."_

"_You're getting off on this, aren't you?" Flack muttered as Danny buckled the straps around his ankles. _

"_I know that I am."_

_Flack started at the voice, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. Mac Taylor had appeared, and stood behind him, a very satisfied smirk on his face. A hot wave of panic rushed over Flack._

"_What is this!" shouted Flack. "Danny! You lied to me?"_

"_No, all he told you was the truth," Mac said. "We did need the visual help with the scene recreation. You are about the height-" He raised an eyebrow, eying Flack's bottom. "-and size, of the victim."_

"_Yeah, I never thought you had that padding, under those bad-fitting suits you always wear," Danny remarked thoughtfully._

_Flack turned scarlet. "You sick, disgusting freaks! Get me off this thing! I swear to God, I'll-"_

"_You're not going to do anything, Don," Mac said. "Not for a while, anyway. You see, there was one more recreation we needed some help with."_

_Mac slid out a metal rolling table akin to the ones used in autopsy. Instead of surgical equipment, however, this one bore an array of S&M instruments. Flack paled beneath his blush, his light eyes round with disbelief. Mac picked up a leather riding crop, studying it._

"_There was a unique bruising pattern on the victim," he said. With a chuckle, he explained, "It isn't exactly something we can figure out on a dead pig, of course. Dead bodies don't-" He flicked the crop across the seat of Flack's pants. "-bruise."_

_Flack stared up at him incredulously. He looked over at Danny, as if for help. Danny shook his head, though he looked sympathetic. Flack broke into an anxious grin. Mac had noticed before that he often dealt with insult and injury with that smile: sometimes it was cynical, other times it could be angry, wry, or defiant. Mac normally found it endearing, but given the fact that Flack had been jeering at him with it for the past weeks, he now found it obnoxious._

"_Okay, okay, you got me," Flack gave in. "Very funny, guys. Really. You had me going. You're probably taping this, right? I get it, Mac, I've been … I've been pissed off and I guess kind of unprofessional. We'll put it behind us, all right?"_

_Mac smirked at Flack's choice of words. "Oh, we certainly will."_

"_I didn't mean- Come on!" Flack repeated, the sheepish humor leaving his face. "You're not really going to do this. I mean, you're not … You can't possibly … "_

"_Oh, he's gonna do it," Danny informed him. "Trust me. I know."_

"_You can't just assault people like this!" Flack told Mac. "This is sick!"_

"_You know what's sick, Don? Blaming me for doing my damn job!" Mac snapped at him. "Laying the outcomes of someone else's wrongdoings at my feet, that's sick! It's sick, and it's unfair."_

"_Mac!"_

"_No, I'm through talking," Mac said firmly. "You are wrong, and I think you know it. You're angry at me out of spite, and that's a petty, childish way to act. It's disappointing."_

"_Are you scolding me right now?" Flack asked, dumbfounded. "Seriously?"_

"_Yes, I am, seriously," Mac retorted. "And I'm going to do more than that. You've earned this, Don. Don't you dare try to say that you haven't."_

_Mac moved out of view while Flack was still gaping at him. Danny came before him. He put a reassuring hand on Flack's shoulder._

"_Sorry about this, but Mac wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," he said. "Honestly? I really didn't think you'd fall for the setup so easily."_

"_I trusted you," Flack said. "Damn it, Messer! You'll pay for this!"_

_Danny shrugged. He knew that Mac would protect him from any revenge Flack might try to exact, and that Flack would be inclined to obey Mac's command henceforward. He patted Flack's shoulder one more time._

"_What can I say? I'm sorry."_

_With that, Danny left them. His footsteps echoed in the garage until there was the sound of elevator doors opening, then shutting. Angry as he was with the man, Don wished his friend had not gone. He was alone with a very angry Mac Taylor now- alone with him, and completely at his mercy._

_Mac's hand slid under his waist. Flack writhed, but he was too tightly bound across the bench to move more than an inch or two in any direction._

"_Well, if I'm going to study the bruising pattern, these are going to have to come down, aren't they?" he said, deftly unzipping the man's fly. _

_Flack pressed his face into the bench cushion, and the dead-alive, musky smell of leather flooded his nostrils. He was suddenly alight with sensitivity. He could feel every crease and pore of the leather, every tendon in every arch of his body, and the cool, static air of the garage on his skin. Yet despite the clearness of his physical reality, his mind still denied the situation. This simply could not be happening. He could not be bent over a fetish bench with his ass in the air, awaiting any variety of spanking from Mac Taylor._

"_What did Danny mean when he said that he knew you'd do it?" he asked suddenly. The silence was too ominous to bear. He did not know if anything could be accomplished by talking, but nothing could make matters much worse now. "He sounded like he was speaking from experience."_

"_He was. When he had all that trouble with his brother, I was furious with him," Mac said. Nonetheless, there was an affectionate, nostalgic smile on his lips. "He drove me absolutely crazy. I was worried for him, more worried than I had been for anyone in a very long time. Finally, it just got to be too much. I couldn't let him fall, not after all I'd invested in him, not after he was so settled into this good life. I didn't want to hurt him, but I wanted to hurt him. It happened very quickly, I hadn't even realized what I was doing until it was nearly done."_

"_You spanked Danny?"_

"_Yeah. Yeah, I did."_

_Mac let his mind wander to that night. He could still see Danny's shock, could still feel the violent struggle he had fought to restrain. Then, the tears, the apology, and it was done. Danny had been his, from that moment on, his to keep safe, his to guide, his to watch out for … his to love._

You won't be so easily conquered, will you, Don? _Mac thought towards the helpless man. He brought down his slacks and boxers with a tug. His hand grazed Flack's skin, and he felt him shudder. _Danny was looking for guidance. He wanted, **needed**, to be saved. You're just trying to be right, because you're used to being right. Well, we'll see how confident in your judgment you are when it's gotten you a well-tanned hide.

"_Mac, don't do this, you gotta know this is crazy," Flack was pleading. "I'm a grown man. You don't just do this to a guy!"_

"_You know, I wouldn't have expected a homicide detective to whine so much over so little," Mac told him. He picked a rattan cane from the table, tested its flexibility briefly. "Your father was a cop, he must have believed in stern rules. Haven't you ever been spanked before, Don?"_

"_Yeah, of course, but-but not for years!" Flack said. He pulled against the restraints, to no avail. He swallowed, subdued by the memories of punishments long since past. "And not like this, tied down. And-and besides, you … you're not my father, Mac. I don't know who the hell you think you are to do this, but you're __**not**__my father."_

"_I'm not trying to be your father, Don," Mac said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "All I'm trying to do is get your respect."_

"_You think I'm gonna respect you after you pull something like this?" Flack asked angrily. "Maybe I did respect you, when I thought you were a normal guy, but I'm not gonna respect a freak show! You do this, and I swear to God, I will never respect you! You're a lunatic! A freaking pervert!"_

_Mac's open hand slapped across Flack's buttocks, leaving a bright handprint on his right cheek. The sound resonated like a gunshot through the garage. Mac had not intended to hit the man in earnest anger, but he should have known this resolution would not last; Don Flack could grate on the nerves. Mac smirked, satisfied at the sight of the mark on Don's pale skin. He removed his jacket, and began to roll up his sleeves._

_Don stared at the floor in helpless shock, a faint tingling warmth spreading from the handprint. There was no way of denying the situation now. He had the brief impression that he was a child again, hanging off his father's knee, staring at the kitchen linoleum while a hand patiently spanked whatever lesson needed to be taught into him. _

"_How can you do this to me, Mac?" he asked. "You have no right to do this to me!"_

"_You really are whiny, aren't you? You're a brat, Don. That's really all you are, isn't it?" He prodded Don's fleshy bottom, adding, "In the end."_

_Don looked back at him with a miserably furious expression. Mac almost felt sorry for him. Nonetheless, he lifted his hand, and laid a matching handprint on Don's left cheek. Don flinched, his head collapsing on the bench top in defeat. Curiously, he did not look away, but watched Mac as he began the spanking proper. _

"_I never thought you were the kinky type," Flack said. "Hell, I never thought you were gay. Does this do it for you? Having a guy half naked and spanking his bare ass? Really? The father figure routine? You're that much a stereotype, you sick bastard?"_

_Mac could not help but observe the part of anatomy Flack had mentioned. Flack was fit, but his buttocks were still a bit soft (due to sitting at his desk for such long stretches and fast food, Mac had no doubt). Danny had been right in his remark about padding; in his daily clothing, it was not possible to tell, but Don did indeed have a healthy amount of meat on his haunches. Mac could not deny that the feel of that springy flesh quivering beneath his palm was pleasurable. It was all the more pleasurable to see the expanding circles of red forming on each cheek, incredibly bright against all the rest of Don's unexpectedly smooth white skin. _

_Mac, however, was the master of the poker face. He met Don's eyes directly, even as he gave him a particularly hard spank, and declared, "This has nothing to do with sex, Flack."_

"_Oh no? 'Cause it's kinda turning me on, even."_

_Mac glanced between his legs. "Well, judging by the evidence, you aren't lying." He was gratified to see a look of pure mortification overtake Flack's face. "But I doubt that you'll be very aroused by the time I'm done with you."_

_Flack turned his face away, but went on talking, "Are you really some kind of queer or something, Mac? I mean, not that there's anything wrong with being a sadistic fag, but I'm curious."_

_Mac paused in the spanking, pondering Flack. He had to admire Don's efforts to remain cynical. He had thought that lying helpless through a spanking would still his tongue, but despite the blush that colored his entire body, despite the hitch of desperation in his voice, he kept on._

"_You just have to be a smartass, don't you?" Mac said. He picked up the riding crop. "Well, the smarter the ass, the more it'll smart."_

_The crop snapped out and cracked straight across Flack's behind. He yelped at the unexpected burn of the stripe. It layered over the dull sting of the handprints Mac had laid on him, and his buttocks began to throb painfully. Just as this new level of pain began to register, there was another booming crack, and a fresh burst of heat sank into his exposed skin. Tears sprang to his eyes, making shame well up inside him like bile._

"_It hurts," he said, rather stupidly. "That actually hurts."_

"_I didn't set all this up for your entertainment," Mac reminded him. "Or for mine. I brought you down here to be punished, and that's what I intend to do."_

"_But why, Mac?" Don asked. His voice was smaller, and he cleared his throat to restore its force. "Why? I mean, I know we have this disagreement, but-"_

"_It isn't about disagreeing," Mac said. "What kind of a man do you think I am? I wouldn't punish you for not agreeing with me. But you've been holding the disagreement against me. You've been unprofessional, even dangerously uncooperative. You have to realize that I cannot tolerate that behavior."_

_Crack!_

"_You're not even my boss, you- Aahh. Mm." Flack barely stifled a shout, clamping his mouth tightly shut. He squirmed, though the wriggling only stuck his backside further out into the air, much to his detriment when the next strike landed. This time, the yelp escaped. "Aow! Aaaaow! C'mon, Mac, please, this hurts!"_

"_Not exactly the right kind of pattern," Mac observed. He laid down the crop. "Let's see. It's too narrow. The cane would be even narrower. How about we try the ruler? You should be familiar with the ruler, being a Catholic school boy and all."_

"_Mac, look, I'm sorry," Don said grudgingly. "Just cut this out. I'll stop bitching at you about the whole thing. All right?"_

"_I appreciate it, Don, but there's still the bruising pattern to finish," Mac said smugly. He allowed himself to squeeze Don's bottom briefly. "The ruler. It must have been at an upward angle, though, something like-" He swung the flat wooden stick. It connected with Don's bottom like a bat hitting a baseball. "-this."_

_The ruler struck across Don's lower buttocks with an uplifting motion. Don jumped, wincing visibly. The tears in his eyes threatened to spill over, and he blinked them back furiously. He gripped the legs of the bench tightly, knuckles going white. His heightened senses were all focused on the spanking now. He fancied that he could feel each separate bruise, the stripes feeling like strips of burning nettles, the handprints a flat, broad expanse of warmth that was almost pleasant by comparison. _

_Mac liked the effect the ruler had, and did not hold back as he continued to spank Don with it. Wide, flat red marks neatly lined Flack's buttocks, the edges white against previous bruises, which had darkened to a deep scarlet. There were a few individual little bruises here and there, dark purple. Don's pointless struggles became more pronounced. Mac could feel his attempt at stoicism coming apart. Still, Don kept his misery predominantly contained. Pure stubbornness, Mac thought, not unaffectionately. _

"_I may not be your father, but how do you think your father would feel about you acting so unprofessionally?" Mac scolded. "Do you think he would want you compromising your investigations by trying to shut me out? Would he be proud of you trying to keep me quiet about a dirty cop, just to save your pride?"_

_The lecture served its purpose. At the mention of the father he had spent his life trying to measure up to, Don wilted. The tears were leaking out of his screwed shut eyes, and he felt himself losing to the maddening urge to burst into sobs. He took the next few whacks without moving, perversely clinging to the pain that seared into his skin. His anger at Mac had faded, replaced by a confusion of self-loathing and self-pity. _

"_Answer me, Don," Mac demanded. "Would your father be proud?"_

"_No," Don answered, choking on the word. His voice was thick, and his breathing was shaky. "No, he wouldn't. I was wrong. I had no right to treat you like that, Mac. I know that. I-I just … I- Oh God, Mac! I still think it was a mistake, what you did. But it wasn't only that. I was so pissed off that you came after my guys, it was like you were going after my precinct, after-after me. I just want to … make my dad proud, you know?"_

"_I understand," Mac said. "I've done the same. But our fathers were not perfect. Even if they had been, just because we want to live up to perfection doesn't mean that we can, Don. The less time you spend insisting that you're right about everything, the more time you'll have to learn how to be just that much closer to your father's legacy."_

_Don sniffled, and Mac realized that he had been crying for some time. Mac set the ruler aside. He sympathetically rubbed a hand over Flack's buttocks, feeling the heat rising from the bruises, his pulse racing inside his body. Flack eased into the touch, doubtless appreciative of the coolness of Mac's palm._

"_I'm sorry, Mac, I really am," Don said sincerely. "I'm not saying you were right, but I shouldn't have acted like … like … "_

_Mac was unfastening the straps holding Flack's ankles to the bench frame. "Like a sullen brat."_

"_Yeah." Flack gave a small, heavy laugh. "Yeah, we'll go with that."_

_Mac came around in front of Flack, and lifted his face up by the chin. Flack's face was streaked with tears and snot, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. His expression of unguarded misery made him look like an overgrown boy. Mac ruffled his hair, and then knelt to unfasten the last of the restraints. _

_The first thing Don did once he was free was scrub his fists across his eyes. He drew a few huffy breaths, trying to calm himself. He slowly lowered himself off the bench, pulling his boxers and pants back up. He felt raw and foolish. He sank weakly down onto the bench, wincing as his sore bottom hit the cushion. Mac put a hand on his shoulder. Don could not quite meet his eyes._

"_There's no shame in crying, Don," Mac said. "Hey. Look at me. It's okay, Don."_

_Don managed to meet his eyes, but the effort crumbled him. He burst into sobs again, and suddenly threw his arms around Mac. He sobbed heavily into his shirt. _

_Mac was shocked, but he managed to put his arms around the other man. He patted his back, murmured senseless words of comfort. The outburst was heart-wrenchingly intense, but mercifully brief. Don soon pulled back, sniffling again, trying to wipe his tears away on his sleeve. A hand lingered on Mac's arm, gripping him._

"_I can't believe this," he said sheepishly. "What am I, five? I can't believe I'm cryin'."_

"_You never cried before?"_

"_Well yeah, I always cried when my father spanked me," Don said with a small chuckle of nostalgia. "Yelled my head off. He didn't do it often, and stopped early on. My ma used to joke that he was afraid he'd go deaf if he kept on. One time-" He laughed. "This one time, some people in the apartment downstairs called social services. They thought it was child abuse, or murder, I don't know. All over a few whacks, can you believe it?"_

_Mac returned his smile, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. _

"_But I'm an adult," Don said. "I shouldn't fall apart like this. I mean, I shouldn't be being spanked, either-" He gave Mac a pointed look. "-but if I was, then I shouldn't have been crying over it."_

"_Why do you think you cried?"_

_Don shrugged. "I don't know. All that stuff you said about my father. Remembering what it felt like to be a kid again, to feel that level of shame and guilt and stuff. It's been a long time since anyone took charge of me, Mac. I'm always the one running the show, so to speak."_

"_Ah, you got used to that, huh?" Mac said with a knowing smile. "Being in charge, not being told anything, not being challenged?"_

_Don grinned. "You gotta admit, it's a good way to live."_

"_It is." Mac sat on the bench beside Flack. "It can also be harmful. Honestly, I'm not used to being challenged, either- except by you. I have to admit, I've been wanting to take you over for a while."_

"_Oh yeah?" Don raised his eyebrows, then knit them together in a frown. "Am I that hateful?"_

"_No, no, you're not hateful," Mac assured him. "Just difficult."_

"_And this is how you deal with difficult men?"_

"_Sometimes."_

"_I still say it's a sex thing," Flack insisted. He turned more fully to Mac, edging closer to him. The motion sent a fresh throb of pain through his bottom, and he shifted uncomfortably. "You sure it's not a sex thing?"_

"_If you're asking whether I am attracted to you, well, yes, I am," Mac said. "You are a very attractive man, personality flaws non-withstanding."_

_Don stared at him for a minute. "You're gay? Jesus, since when?"_

"_So much for don't ask, don't tell," muttered Mac. "I always have been, Don."_

"_Huh. How about that."_

_Don puzzled over this for a while. Mac watched him, curious as to how he would react once he finally processed this information. As minutes ticked by, Mac had to force himself not to reach out and pinch him._

"_So?" he asked when he could no longer stand the silence. "What do you think?"_

_Don looked at him again, but his face betrayed nothing. There was the hint of a smile about his lips, but Don's smiles could mean anything. Without warning, Don moved even closer to Mac, their thighs pressed together through their pants. He leaned his face close, and then closed the minute gap between their profiles. He pressed his lips to Mac's, a sweet, shy kiss. Stunned, Mac could only stare at him. Don's eyes swept closed beneath his dark, thick lashes, above a face that was once again blushing. _

_His lips were firm and tender on Mac's mouth. He smelled lightly of sweat, soap, aftershave, and his own unique chemistry. There was a salty taste on his lips, most likely the remnants of whatever food he had eaten on the go that day. The taste of him sparked a rush of desire that broke Mac out of his stupor. He reached around Don, a hand ruffling into his hair, wiry and thick, holding him close. He opened his mouth around Don's, his tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Flack jerked at this, but Mac held him in place. If this was the only kiss he would ever get from the man, he wanted it to be memorable._

_Don's body eased, tension melting away as he yielded to the kiss. The salt was from french fries, the taste of them still lingered in his mouth. Mac ran his tongue along Don's slick teeth, familiarizing with the shape of the rows, bumping into a slightly crooked one on the bottom. Don was hesitant, but he tentatively explored back, his lips tightening on Mac's, sucking, and then parting for breath. His heart was racing so fast that he was surprised it hadn't worn out, and his skin felt alight with fire all over. Mac's touch was no longer cool, but equally warm. One hand stroked the back of his neck, just at the base of his hair, and the other rested gently on his arm. Flack's awareness had spread to encompass Mac, as if they could feel through one another's bodies as well as their own._

_They pulled apart at last. Don was gasping for air, and he gaped at Mac for a minute. "Um. Uh. Wow, I … What just happened?"_

"_Well, ah, Don, if you have to ask … "_

_Don gripped Mac by both arms. "No, really, what just happened? I'm not even gay. I mean, I never thought I was. I guess I could be?"_

"_Don, Don." Mac shook him. "Calm down. It was just a kiss."_

_Flack blew out a sigh. "Yeah, right. Right. Just a kiss." His eyes met Mac's, and he frowned slightly. "That's all it was. Just a kiss."_

_The link had not been severed just yet, though. Their hands were still on each other's arms, and their legs were still touching. Don leaned forward, stopped, and then went ahead and kissed Mac again. It was shorter, more succinct, but far less shy. Afterward, Mac gave him a smaller kiss on the side of his mouth, then kissed the tip of his nose._

"_Oh hell," groaned Don. He bowed his head, his forehead touching Mac's. "Hell, Mac, I think I'm … I think I want you."_

_The astonishment in his voice did not please Mac very much, but the words did. He drew a breath, caressing Flack's arm lightly. "Really?"_

"_I guess?"_

Not the sharpest tool in the shed,_Mac thought. _It's a good thing he's cute.

_Mac stood from the bench, taking Don's hands into his own. Don looked up at him expectantly, an oddly dog-like expression. Mac patted his head, then ran his hand down Don's face._

"_Listen, Don, I want you, too," Mac said. "But you're emotional, you're confused, and I don't think it's a good idea for us to-"_

_Don was on his feet then, and kissing him again. Mac could feel him submitting to his desire, submitting to Mac's will and body. Having Flack so pliable in his arms drove all rational thought from Mac's mind. He took the taller man into his arms, and kissed him with such force that it was nearly violence. _

_Inevitability took over from that point, and neither man did a thing to fight it._

* * *

**[Now]**

"Are you flirting with me, Flack?"

"Men don't 'flirt'," Flack said, still smiling. The flash of memory had brought color to his face. "I wouldn't know how to 'flirt' if my life depended on it, anyway."

"It sounded like flirting," Mac said simply.

"Hey, I never asked you, but were you with Danny back then?" Flack asked. "When we got it on in the crime lab garage?"

"We were in an open relationship."

"How come you never said anything about him to me?"

"Because an open relationship by its very definition is something uncomplicated," Mac said. "What we had that day was just sex, and we agreed it was a one-time thing. If it had ever threatened to get serious, of course I would have had to tell you about Danny, and him about you."

"But you guys got serious later, right?" Flack asked. He had spent the night in mournful silence, and was happy to lose himself in someone else's messed up life. "You came out to your friends, moved in together."

"Yeah, the 'uncomplicated something' got too complicated," Mac said dryly. "So we agreed on no secrets, no disloyalty, and it worked for a while. We were happy, very happy, until … "

"Until what?" Flack asked curiously. "What happened?"

"That is between me, and Danny," Mac said. The only person he had confessed the cause of their breakup to was Stella. "Suffice it to say, it ended."

"At least you guys ended it." Flack's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "You know? You got to live the relationship through to the end. You got to get everything out of it that you could. You controlled how it went out. It wasn't just taken from you. Wasn't just snatched away right out from under you. At least you had that, right?"

Mac did not know what to say to that. He had the urge to reach out and touch Flack in comfort, but he refrained. Though he felt sorry for the man, he could not help a streak of annoyance. Four years later, and here Flack was, being irresponsible again. He was in no shape to work tonight, and Mac knew he would never admit it.

_As long as we get to the crime scene in one piece, _Mac thought, eying Flack dubiously. _I'll give him a break if we don't crash. And if we do crash, whether he's in mourning or not, he's going to get it._


	2. Chapter 2

**02**

**10:42 PM, January 12, 2010**

**Bronx, New York**

Despite Mac's doubts concerning Flack's ability to drive, they arrived at the crime scene in one piece. Mac joined his team of CSIs at the SUV to help unload the equipment. Flack took the time to be briefed by the patrol units on scene. By the time they had all regrouped, Flack had sobered considerably.

"This is a bad one, Mac, one of ours," he announced. "Neighbor heard a violent commotion and called it in. Local law enforcement arrived on the scene and found our vic, who they recognized as Alan Fraser, a detective from the 44th Precinct. They say it's ugly in there."

"All right," Mac said gruffly. "Let's get up there."

Flack motioned them, and they followed him into the apartment building. Flack grumbled about the broken elevator, as the team trumped up the stairs. Mac caught Danny's eye once, and he could tell from the look in his eyes that the conversation this tragedy had interrupted was far from finished. Despite his fatigue, Mac made certain to stay well ahead of Danny on the stairwell after that.

The crime scene was located in Apartment 34C. Several glum officers were still inside the apartment, talking in the low tones used at wakes. The CSI team went past them, to the bedroom.

"They weren't kidding about it being ugly," Flack breathed. "This is messed up."

No one was inclined to disagree with him. The modernly spartan bedroom was covered in blood, disturbingly dark and thick against the light gray and ash wood furniture and white carpeting. The victim was strung up in his bed, arms tied to the bedposts in an odd resemblance to a crucification. Blood streaked down his body, having oozed from a number of stab wounds. He was bound and gagged. The CSI team went about setting up to process the scene in silence. Flack hung by the door, notebook and pen in his hand but unable to stop staring at the body.

Fraser was dressed for bed, shirtless and wearing black sleep pants, which were slashed almost to ribbons. From what could be seen of his body, he was a moderately handsome dark-haired man with a strong jawline and chin, athletic in build. The officers that had recognized him from socializing at one of the local cop bars had described him as an affable man that was liked by most that met him. His downstairs neighbor, the elderly woman that had called in the disturbance, had said that he was a nice, quiet man that never bothered anybody. He had even helped out with small problems around the building, a leaky faucet or a faulty outlet. He was old school, a real community cop, from all appearances.

Flack looked away from the body, his skin going cold beneath his clothes. His father had been of the same mold, and he tried to live up to that model as best as he could in this darker modern world. Seeing a man roughly his own size with the same coloring lying there dead struck a chord of ill fate inside him. It was one of those little moments of indescribable feeling that people in this work never talked about, never allowed themselves to fully feel. The discomfort floated through Flack's body, not quite touching his conscious mind, not altering his expression in the slightest. It was not a ghost walking over a grave, but a ghost walking through the living.

This time, however, the tiny bubble of darkness managed to rise to the surface of Flack's mind. It burst into his awareness with the pop of a single thought: _So I don't want to die?_

Flack frowned deeply, sucking in a breath as if he had been punched in the stomach. The smell of pooling blood and death filled his nostrils. He held it for a moment before exhaling slowly, careful to draw the rest of his breaths through his mouth.

Since losing Angell, Don had been trying to die. He had been slowly poisoning himself with drink since his sister died, but losing Jess had been the very last straw. Though he functioned outwardly, he felt pieces of himself breaking loose and drifting away with every moment that passed. He never let himself think the words specifically, but he had known deep down that it was suicide all along. Hell, he had watched the very same long, painful process destroy his sister.

Putting himself through the same crucible had felt right, even noble in some twisted way. She had failed, believing all her life that she was set up to fail by a father that favored Don over her. Don did not blame their father, _could not _put that blame on his idol, and so the guilt had turned inward. Their father had been dead for years, after all, while he was still here. He had been there, watching from a far distance as his own sister wrecked her life. He had failed her when she had needed family most, and he shouldered that blame alone. Favored son or not, Don believed it was only right that he let himself understand the pain she had been in.

Then, Angell had died. Punishment, Don had figured, it was punishment for failing his sister. He had caused her misery, and so God had taken away his happiness. It was proof that he should have simply gone on suffering, and so now he had welcomed back the darkness. In the very corners of his soul, he had known that this time, he would be surrendering to it utterly. This downward spiral would end with his death, and until now, that had been a freeing thought.

So what was this? Was he just a hypocrite? Was he going squeamish just because he saw a dead cop that looked a little like him?

"Flack? Flack, did you hear me?"

With effort, Flack dragged himself back to the gruesome reality around them. He caught the suspicious glint in Mac's green eyes, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, Mac?"

"Aren't you going to take notes?"

Flack just remembered the notebook and pen in his hands. He looked down at it, flipping to a blank page. His face was neutral, but his ears had gone red. Mac frowned in disapproval, but did not comment. After all, he had once punished Flack for being unprofessional, it would be hypocritical if he picked a fight at a crime scene himself.

"Do you have a COD?" Flack asked. "The stabbing?"

"It's difficult to tell," Danny answered from across the room. He pointed along the body as he spoke. "The entire midsection of the torso has multiple stab wounds, which would normally be an obvious Cause of Death, but … "

Flack cocked his head, but he could see no other injuries on the victim. "But?"

Danny winced. Hawkes came up beside him, having finished his preliminary examination of the body.

"_But_," he continued, sparing Danny, "the victim was castrated. There also appears to be severe rectal trauma, which may have caused internal damage. It's impossible to tell whether the stabs, the castration, or, God forbid, the anal rape were premortem or post."

Flack grimaced as he took his notes.

Mac was circling the room, pausing here and there for closer inspection. He left the room to go over the rest of the apartment. In the meantime, Danny, Lindsay, and Hawkes provided Flack with more material for his notes: where the struggle had taken place, the bloody boot prints leading from the bed to the bathroom, where there were signs that the killer had washed blood down the sink, and the most disturbing discovery of all, that the victim's castrated organ was missing.

Mac returned with the question, "Do you guys notice anything unusual about this place?"

They all glanced around.

"Kind of empty," Danny remarked. "Just the basics: dining set, living room set, bedroom set, TV, phone, computer and desk, and the apartment's provided appliances. And nothing has any color, everything is all black, white, or gray. Looks like a furniture rental store."

"There are no decorations, or art," Lindsay added. "No mementos, and no pictures. That's odd. Nothing from police academy, nothing from home, nothing from family or friends."

"You're both right. Also-" Mac opened one of the drawers on the bureau and beckoned them close. "-look at the way everything is organized and folded: sharp, crisp, not a single item of clothing out of place. The bedsheets were turned down for the night, but if you look towards the bottom, you can still see where the top sheet had been folded under into hospital corners."

"So what are we thinking?" Danny asked. "OCD?"

"More like PFC," Mac said. He held up his discovery between two latex glove-covered fingers. "Dog tags. He was with the National Guard at some point. Private First Class."

"This just gets better and better," Flack said darkly. "Who the hell does a thing like this, huh?"

"Overkill," Danny remarked. "Makes me think that it was personal."

"No one reported that he had any significant relationships," Flack said doubtfully. "They said they had seen him with girls from time to time, but he never had anything serious."

"Maybe he was seeing someone privately?" Lindsay suggested. "Something illicit?"

"It might have been considered illicit, depending on your view," Mac said dryly. "No pictures, no mementos, no gifts, but I did find this."

Mac set down a small metal box, which he had already unlocked with a key found in a drawer. "I found this under a loose floorboard in the living room," he explained. "Here, take a look."

Inside the box there were the usual sexual aids: condoms, lubricants, and a few toys. There was a CD case with numerically numbered burned CDs, three USB flash drives, and one single photograph. It showed Alan Fraser in a much healthier light, suntanned and smiling joyfully at the camera. His arm was slung around the shoulders of another man, blond and as finely structured as any runway model. Their closeness and intimately shared happiness left no room for misinterpretation.

Flack felt a tightness in his throat. Another similarity. Not that he considered himself gay, of course, but he had had that one experiment with Mac. He noticed Danny and Mac sharing a look.

"He was gay," Lindsay needlessly stated.

"And you know what that means," Mac said. "It is possible that this was a hate crime."

"With this kind of violence, the lack of hesitation … " Hawkes shook his head in dismay. "Mac, this killer might have experience."

"He may have," Mac agreed. "But so do we."


	3. Chapter 3

**03**

**12:30 AM, January 13, 2010**

**CSI Crime Lab, New York**

Mac Taylor had worked through the night, and he was exhausted. There would be no sleep for a while yet, he knew. Some cases were like that, they blew into bigger and bigger proportions as the facts became clear. It was frustrating for a Crime Scene Investigator, like piecing together a puzzle whose form obstinately refused to take shape.

A high-profile puzzle, that was. The death of a good cop always garnered attention. People gawked at the tragedy, criminals celebrated the 'failure' of the law to protect its own, and the law enforcement community restlessly sought justice, or revenge, while the politicians pressed for a victory to spin into positive press. That was all irritating enough, but Mac knew the sexual aspects of this case would turn it into a circus spectacle. Mac had a bad taste in his mouth already, just thinking about the headlines that would be rushed to press today.

Mac shut himself in the elevator, on his way to the Autopsy Lab. The small chamber was empty, and he used the moment of privacy to shut his eyes. He tried to let the case fall away, but when it had gone from his mind, it was replaced by memories.

The press would be looking to blame the victim. The 'enlightened liberals' would not directly blame the victim, nor decry his personal choices. However, they would leave the bald facts in ink on the papers, open to any number of comments and theories from armchair gods that spent their time passing judgment on people they had never known. No one would attempt a puff piece, not when it was so much more worth it to leave the question of Fraser's subversiveness open. The rags would tear the man to shreds, and try to drag the rest of the NYPD down with him. They would blame Fraser's 'secret gay lifestyle,' as they would doubtless label it, for his death. They would make him out to be a freak, and the city would let them. The scumbags they arrested would be calling all of the police force homosexual slurs for months to come. Worst of all, they would make that same force ashamed of one of its own.

It would be the AIDs crisis in miniature, Mac thought bitterly. He had lived through those times. He had watched families denouncing their own, for the sake of not being labeled diseased and untouchable. He had watched the tragedy of an outbreak turn people into monsters or cowards, and their victims bury themselves in shame.

Would Fraser's family do the same? Mac wondered. He knew that the victim's parents were flying in from Florida. They were both retired, the mother from teaching elementary school and the father from general medicine. Would they refuse to believe the way he had chosen to live his life? Would they fly back home, quietly pretending their own son had never existed?

The elevator chimed, relieving Mac of his dark thoughts. He straightened up, and left the small cell briskly. Shortly, he was in Autopsy.

Sid Hammerback had finished his initial work on Fraser's corpse, though he was still bustling about and going over results. Odd as the wiry elder man was, he was a brilliant perfectionist. It was reassuring to see him at his work, gruesome as it was. Sid treated the dead with respect, and he would never leave a forensic detail ignored. He always struck Mac as part surgeon, part (mad) scientist, and part mechanic. The atmosphere here scarcely differed from that in the garage. The lights were stark white, the air cool, and the sounds of drills and other machinery could be heard echoing through the rooms. The smell was the thing that told the two facilities apart: the garage held the sharp tang of metal and gasoline in its air, whereas Autopsy smelled of antiseptic and an underlying whiff of decay.

"What have you got for me, Sid?"

Sid removed his glasses, unclipping the wraparound pair at the center and hanging them around his neck. He met Mac with a gravely serious expression. Mac was disheartened, knowing the death must has been as brutal as it had looked- at the very least.

"Well, Mac," Sid said slowly, "I hate to tell you this, but I don't have much. Other than confirmation that this poor man was savagely tortured before death."

"Savagely tortured?" Mac echoed. "Is that your medical opinion?"

"It is," Sid replied. "There is not a single injury on him that was done postmortem, and it was all done with such immediacy that he wasn't given the time to even lose consciousness. This poor man was alive for the duration of the attack. It was the castration that did it. His body went into shock and he bled out. At that point, I hate to say it, but it must was a mercy."

Mac crossed his arms, looking down at Fraser. Relaxed in death, washed of the blood and filth, he looked deceptively peaceful. Mac thought of the picture he had seen in the locked box, of this same body charged with the flush of life and love. He wondered at the insignificance of the body. Ultimately, all the shells occupied by humanity ended up just this empty and meaningless. The thought struck a chord of deep sorrow within Mac.

Sid continued into the details of the autopsy. Mac listened closely, but he was still partially lost in his own reflections. He was no stranger to death. He had seen death in war, in all its shapes and forms. He saw it nearly every day working with the NYPD's CSI team. Men that lived such lives always told themselves the same thing: that every loss was a tragedy, that every case was identically significant, that one could maintain an equal level of feeling for every victim. So much as the mind clung to these ideals, however, the human heart was beyond all discipline. Upon finding evidence of a victim having lived a life harmful to others, a subtle chill crept over that recalcitrant heart, cooling whatever sympathies it might have felt previously. This same unruly heart would jolt and start if the victim bore a resemblance to a friend or loved one. Sometimes it would tug with sympathy, as Mac's was attempting to do now.

"What?" Mac asked, suddenly brought fully back to the conversation. "Did you say the attacker left _no_ DNA whatsoever?"

"None," Sid said. "He must have used every precaution imaginable: gloves, hat or a shaved head, a condom. I got to tell you, Mac, I have never seen a victim left so clean, so to speak, that wasn't put through a bleach bath."

"All the blood-"

"Was the victim's," Sid said. "I'm sorry, Mac, but this guy was very capable. He left absolutely nothing of himself on the victim. It's as if he was attacked by a ghost."

"I've never heard of a ghost that does anything this violent," Mac said.

"The pure viciousness of the attack lends credibility to your theory that this may have been a hate crime," Sid said. He paused. "There is a cruelty and excitement exhibited in these wounds. They're erratic, wild, exuberant. Now, I have a theory, but it's completely theoretical."

"Let's hear it, Sid."

"Well, all right, then," Sid said. "I think that this is the first kill in an escalation pattern. Our killer may have a history of hate crimes, but I would guess that they were non-lethal crimes of opportunity. He may have stalked victims from gay bars or clubs, then either raped them or beaten them, quickly and with increasing efficiency from crime to crime."

"But the more efficient he becomes, the less the crimes thrill him," Mac took over, seeing Sid's train of thought. "So, he takes a break, maybe even tries to stop, goes through a period of frustration and depression. The murderous urges and the rage build up inside of him. Slowly, he begins to plan, and as he does, he starts the escalation process in his mind."

"Right," Sid says. "The bondage, the rape, even the castration, all could be part of a very particular fantasy."

"And now that he's pulled that fantasy off, he'll spend the rest of his life perfecting and recapturing it," Mac said. "This attack will either lead to a spree, or he'll ride the high for a while until he starts to plan another one."

"If this was a planned attack, I would hate to see this guy on a spree," Sid said.

"Either way, we won't let him hurt another person," Mac said. "We're going to get this guy, Sid. We have to."

"I did find something."

Mac raised his eyebrows. "Now you tell me?"

"It isn't much," warned Sid. He pulled the swing-arm magnifying glass over the victim's wrist and turned on its light. "But do you see this bruising pattern? It's the same on both wrists and ankles, where he was bound with some kind of restraint?"

"Yes, the victim was buckled into leather cuffs that were chained to the bed," Mac informed him. "The lab is still examining the equipment."

"Well, look closely right … here."

Mac looked into the magnifying glass, squinting at the spot Sid's finger was pointing to. "Is that a-?"

"As far as I can make out, it's an imprint of lettering," Sid said. "The bruising is indented, see that? The companion of an embossing on the leather cuffs, I'd imagine. The same mark is present in the bruising on all wrists and ankles."

"A set of restraints," Mac said, pulling away from the magnifying glass. "I'm thinking high end. This could help, Sid. It's the first lead we've gotten."

"I only wish it was more, Mac."

Mac patted his shoulder. "It only takes the one first step to start, Sid. Thanks."

* * *

"Hey Mac!"

Mac had just gotten off of the elevator when he heard the familiar call. Despite his weariness, his mouth quirked in a near smile. Danny never had much trouble hunting him down with his results, no matter how awkward their last personal moment had been. Mac never could decide whether it was professionalism or recklessness that drove him.

"Yes, Danny?"

Danny paused for a moment, frowning a little at Mac. The look in his eyes made Mac anxious that he might want to continue their last conversation, but then it cleared. They began to walk together to one of the labs.

"So, we found prints on the picture in the lock box, and we ran them through AFIS [Automated Fingerprint Identification System]." Danny slapped a folder into Mac's chest. "Boom. Robert Jans, AKA the blond guy in the picture."

"He has a record?" Mac asked in surprise. He opened the folder, read, frowned. "_Solicitation_?"

"Yeah, apparently, Mr. Jans was a gigolo for a while there," Danny said, unable to hide the amusement from his voice. "He's also got a few bar fights under his belt, some DUI there. Rebel without a cause, until 2005. No arrests after that point. Which means he either quit or wised up enough not to get caught."

"Or someone made him wise up," Mac said thoughtfully. "Someone like Alan Fraser?"

"Yeah, maybe," Danny said. He added, under his breath, "We both know how that works."

"We also know how tempting it is for certain kinds of people to go back to their old ways," Mac said, giving Danny a withering look. He shoved the folder back at him. "Maybe this Jans didn't have the bit of common sense _you_ did, and threw his reformation away, along with his reformer."

"Think we got motive, Mac?"

"We might," Mac said. "Call Flack, tell him-"

"I did call him," Danny said. "I was going to send him to Jans's last know address, but."

Mac stopped, holding a hand in front of Danny to halt him. "But what, Danny?"

Danny shifted his weight from one foot to another. After a moment, he admitted, "He didn't pick up."

"What do you mean, he didn't pick up?" Mac asked. "We're in the middle of an investigation into a brutal cop slaying, and he _didn't pick up_?"

Danny shrugged anxiously. "Mac-"

"Not again," Mac groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "The last time he did this, I had to drag him from the apartment of a Confidential Informant. I heard later that he had ended up there after being so drunk on a train that he couldn't defend himself from a pair of muggers. He could have been killed. I suspected that he _wanted _to be killed."

Mac touched Danny's shoulder briefly, guiding him into an empty corner of a lab room. Danny watched him uneasily. Mac's face was stern even in its natural state, but Danny recognized the hardening of the features and the knit of the brows. He was furious.

"You never told me about that," Danny said accusingly. "What did you do?"

"Well, I wanted to take off my badge and settle it the way I did four years ago, I'll tell you that," Mac fumed. "But I didn't. I shook him a little, gave him a lecture-"

"More like a tongue-lashing, I bet," chuckled Danny. Mac gave him a look that told him he might be next in line for one, and he shut his mouth.

"Anyway, it seemed to work," Mac continued. "You saw him back at work. He was functioning, professional, the normal Flack. He was like that for all of a few weeks. Then, he started drinking again, he became withdrawn. I saw it happening, Danny. Damn it, I saw it, but we've been so busy. I didn't do a thing to try and intervene."

"It's not your job to babysit Flack," Danny pointed out. "He doesn't need it, anyway. He can take care of himself."

"Can he?" Mac asked doubtfully. He sighed. "Try him again."

Danny dialed Flack's number on his cellphone. _I hope for your sake that you pick up this time, Don, _he thought, glancing worriedly at Mac. He put the phone on speaker, and it began to ring.

"Before we got into all this," Danny said as they waited, "we were talking, right? I haven't forgotten, Mac. You owe me an answer."

"I gave you my answer, Danny," Mac said shortly.

"You gave me _an _answer," Danny clarified. "You gave me your safe answer, the answer you've been holdin' up like a shield ever since we broke up. But Mac, have you really thought about it? Have you given one thought to us living our entire lives without each-"

They were interrupted by Flack's voice coming through the phone's speaker, _"Flack. What is it?"_

Danny and Mac shared a look. Flack's voice was thick and slurred. Danny watched Mac intently, wondering how he would respond. Would he scold the man right through the phone? Arrange to meet with him?

Mac took the phone from Danny and turned the speaker off.

"Where are you, Don?"

Danny raised his eyebrows. Mac nearly sounded gentle. A twinge of jealousy shot through him, startling him. What did he have to be jealous of? Mac may have disciplined Flack once, but what did that mean? It wasn't as if they'd slept together. Besides, that was four years ago, and Danny had never seen anything sexual between them since.

"_I'm, uh, at home, Mac,"_ Flack told him. _"Why?"_

Mac paused for a short moment. Then, "I need to send you to an address."

As Mac gave Flack the details, Danny began to fume privately. His jealousy overcame his rational mind, and he found himself as furious with Flack as Mac had been.

"What gives?" Danny asked the moment Mac hung up.

Mac blinked. What was his ex-lover's problem now? He handed him back his phone. Danny snatched it. Mac would have been annoyed, but was too distracted by the feel of Danny's fingers brushing across his own.

_Since yesterday, I've reacted like a live wire every time we've touched, _Mac thought. _I never should have taken Stella's advice and confronted him about Lindsay. They're adults, it's their business. Every time I mix my business with Danny's, it gets … complicated. Even after all this time, he can still move me. I had been waiting for the flames to die down before I even thought about moving on with someone else. Now, I wonder if they'll ever stop burning._

"You would have torn me a new one if I had answered the phone like that," Danny scowled. "Can you even trust him to go after a possible suspect in that condition?"

"Not alone," Mac said. "That's why I told him to come here and pick you up to accompany him."

"What!"

"Weren't you listening?"

Danny scratched the back of his neck. "Nah. Look, man, we've been up all night, I'm tired-"

"Just get downstairs, Danny."

There was a gleam of humor in Mac's eyes that removed the sting in the command. Danny, never one to let an opportunity pass, stepped closer to him. He saw Mac's guards go up, like those images of force fields sweeping up from out of nowhere in all the science fiction movies. It was a privilege, Danny thought, to be able to read someone so completely. Or was it simply the result of being so drawn to a person that your eyes were trained to take in every last detail of their being?

"This Fraser, our vic," Danny started. He paused. "That could have been either of us, Mac."

"Oh, Danny, don't-"

"Just give me a minute," Danny said. "Don't you owe me that?"

Mac crossed his arms, but waited in silence.

"This world is so stupid," Danny went on. "It's just, I don't know, it's nuts. We've seen all the ways to die. Random ways to die, embarrassing ways to die, crazy ways to die, and all the sad ways to die there are. We look at where, when, how, why … like it all matters. And it does matter. Don't give me that look, Mac, I know it matters. It matters to the people left behind and the legal system and the press and the people and all that. But we keep running from the one thing, Mac. That one fact: none of this matters to the victim."

Mac opened his mouth, but then shut it again. Danny obviously needed to get this long train of thought out, and he may as well let him. Danny was passionate, and it would take more time to subdue him than it would to hear him out.

"The vic is gone, Mac," Danny said. "They're gone from the world where any of that matters. It's over for them. Everything that was and is, gone. Nothing. Nada."

"What are you saying, Danny?" Mac asked cautiously. "That justice is somehow superfluous?"

"No, no, that's not it," Danny grumbled. "That's not it at all. Listen. All I'm sayin' is that what matters is the part that happens _before _the crime."

"Ohhh, Danny, don't," groaned Mac. "Don't give me that 'we've got one life, we should live it' line. Come on, you're better than that."

Danny shrugged. "What? Too soon?"

"Yeah, Danny, using a deplorable murder to your own advantage only hours after it happened is _definitely _'too soon'," Mac scolded. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm serious, though, Mac!" Danny insisted. "If it was me lying down in Autopsy, how would you feel?"

"Don't talk like that," Mac said sharply.

"If it was, though, wouldn't you regret all of this?" Danny went on obstinately. "Wouldn't you regret not being with me?"

"But it isn't you, Danny," Mac said, his voice softening. "And it isn't going to be you, not for a long time, God willing."

"Mac-"

"Go do your job, Danny." Mac took him by the shoulders and turned him to the door. "So that no one else has to live through those regrets."

"All right, all right, I'm goin'," grumbled Danny. He looked over his shoulder at Mac. "Think about it, though."

_It's going to be impossible not to, _Mac thought. He gave Danny a light push to send him on his way. It irritated him to no end that the moment Danny was gone, he began to miss having him near.

_Wouldn't you regret not being with me?_

Mac watched Danny's departure down the hall. He knew every inch of that trim body, had its heart rhythm memorized. He thought of long nights spent holding that body in his arms. It had indeed crossed his mind that all too soon, the vibrancy of life could be snatched from that body, as it was from Alan Fraser's. Hearing Danny voice that very possibility had left him feeling cold and hollowed out.

"I always regret not being with you, Danny."


	4. Chapter 4

**04**

**12:40 AM, January 13, 2010**

**Outside CSI Building**

"Are you trying to piss Mac off or what? Jesus, Flack, what the hell were you-"

Danny ceased this verbal assault the moment he saw Flack's face. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, and his unshaven face looked haggard. Danny shut the car door, sealing them into the unmarked police car together. It reeked of alcohol.

"You can't keep going like this, Don," Danny said quietly.

There was no question of what 'this' meant.

"I'm fine," Flack said, though the lie lacked its usual defensiveness.

"I'll tell Mac that you need a break," Danny offered. "You go home, get some rest."

Flack pulled the car into the street in reply.

"You can't drive like this!" Danny protested in dismay. He hastily fastened his seatbelt.

"I got here, didn't I?" Flack pointed out. "Just tell me the address, all right?"

Danny told him. He settled back in his seat, resigned to praying for their survival. He shut his eyes, trying not to envision the car swerving into an oblivion of twisted metal and fire.

"Was Mac really angry?"

Danny opened one eye to look at him. Flack looked incongruously pleased with himself. Danny was reminded of children that misbehaved to get their father's attention. Was Flack vexing Mac deliberately? To what end? Did he _want_ a repeat of four years ago? The possibility that he did rekindled Danny's encroaching feeling of jealousy.

"Mac was patient," Danny said. "We've all been 'patient' with you, Don. A terrible thing happened to you-"

"Happened to Jess," corrected Flack. "Nothing happened to me, it happened to Angell. I'm fine."

He spat the word bitterly. Danny finally realized why he kept repeating that phrase. It was not only a blatantly untrue denial of his pain, but a lamentation. He was physically fine, and thought he did not deserve to be.

"Don, you've had a really tough time during the last couple years," Danny said slowly. "First your sister, then Jess. We all feel bad for you. But you haven't taken any time off. You haven't mourned. You've been putting off the trauma counseling. It's dangerous, doing your job like this. Everyone's worried about you."

"Yeah?" Flack grinned, the smile so hard that it might have cracked his face. "Well, everyone can stop worrying. _I _don't die. Naahh. Not Don Flack. Everyone dies around me, but I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm just fucking fine."

He hit the steering wheel with his hands. The car meandered into the next lane, then he brought it back. Fortunately, there was not much traffic at this hour.

"Don, this isn't what Angell would have wanted," Danny told him. "You know that."

"No, I don't know that, and neither do you!" Flack shouted at him. "No one knows what someone would want after they've died, not even the people themselves! You know why? Because no one pictures themselves dead! No one thinks that from one moment to the next, they're gonna be gone! So don't give me that crap about the dead wanting me to go on or stop drinking or whatever! Just don't!"

Danny was startled by the outburst, so much so that he did not dare speak. Flack's eyes were rimmed in red, in hideous contrast to the dark circles around them. The depths of suffering within them made Danny turn away.

The two men fell into a stormy silence. It began to snow outside, soft flakes swirling in the ghostly beams of the street lights. The quiet of the city was disarmingly eerie. So much as New Yorkers bemoaned the constant chaos of their home state, most would admit the perpetual presence of life was a comfort. To see the streets and buildings of man standing so still and empty gave one the impression of the inevitable end of all.

"I'm your friend, Don," Danny finally said. "_I_ don't want you to wreck yourself. Come on, you know how that feels. You went through it with your sister."

Don winced as if he had been struck. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, the knuckles going white. He accelerated, and for a moment, Danny worried that he intended to crash them. Then they approached a red light, and he slowed to a stop.

"That's not fair," Flack said. "That is _**not**_ fair, Danny."

"Yeah, you know what? It is!" Danny retorted. "It is, because for years we've all listened to you bitch about your irresponsible sister. You didn't like her drinking, you didn't like her taking risks, wrecking her life. And now you're gonna do those same things?"

"Yeah, so I'm a hypocrite. So what?"

"That's the thing, you're not," Danny said. "You're not a hypocrite, and you're not any of the things your sister was. You're a good guy, Don, and her failures had nothing to do with your success. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why did I lose Angell?"

Danny stared at him, baffled. "What?"

They were driving again, going slowly as Flack looked out the window for the right building.

"I did nothing to save my sister, and then when Jess was shot, there was nothing I _could_ do," Flack explained. His voice was remote, but his eyes gleamed with bleak emotion. "I heard it happen through my phone, for Christ's sake. I held her in my arms while she bled to death. A life for a life. But it wasn't my life. It was Angell's."

"You think you're being punished?" Danny asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I do," Flack said wearily. "It wasn't enough that I die. I wish it had been. But I had to lose everything, to suffer. My happiness, Danny, that was the price I had to pay for abandoning my sister."

"Don, you can't believe that!"

"I do," Don affirmed. "I'm supposed to suffer, so-" He shrugged listlessly. "-I'll suffer."

They parked, and sat very still for a while. Now that he knew what was motivating Flack's self-destruction, Danny almost wished that he didn't. Throwing oneself into a self-designed purgatory was uncomfortably familiar. They said children paid for the sins of the father, but Danny thought that siblings could make you pay a fair amount of dues, also.

"We're here," Flack said unnecessarily, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Come on."

They exited the car. The snow was coming down in frenzied waves now, powdering the concrete until its flaws were masked. Their footprints lifted the snow off, revealing the pavement's sins once more. The world was so still and silent that one could almost feel the eyes of a deity upon them. Danny glanced dubiously up at the purple, cloud-bloated sky. God. Yes, he believed in God. He believed in a God that watched their actions, judged their choices, and lamented their wicked folly. Normally, this belief was comforting, but tonight it only made Danny shiver. He turned his coat collar up and bowed his head, as if hiding from an unseen eye.

The Upper East Side apartment building was beautiful from the inside out. Danny looked around the foyer in frank appreciation of the details, though he found the overall design a bit fussy. They had to rouse the dozing guard at the front desk to gain access to the elevators. The guard scrutinized their badges, casting a suspicious gaze upon scruffy, swaying Flack. Reluctantly, he handed them visitor keycards to access the elevators.

"I was not expecting this," Danny remarked in the elevator. "This guy's a former gigolo. What gives?"

"Maybe he's got a sugar daddy," yawned Flack. "Who knows? Who cares? As long as he doesn't try to run, he can be as rich as he freaking wants."

Given the late hour, Danny had to agree. They exited the elevator into a lavish hallway. Danny marveled at the quiet. He even paused at a few doors to listen, but heard no evidence of life. The silence combined with the marble inlaid into the floor and part of the wall gave him the feeling that he was inside a very luxe mausoleum.

"Don't bother," Flack said, pulling Danny away from a door by the jacket. "I heard some places like this got renovated to soundproof the apartments. It's a big thing, not hearing anything outside your own little swagged-out fish bowl."

"Swagged-out?"

Flack shrugged one shoulder. "You know what I mean."

They came to Jans's apartment, and Flack knocked. There was no response. Flack knocked louder, irritated.

"NYPD!"

"I thought you said these places were soundproof," Danny smirked.

Flack looked at him, realized the futility of his call, and sighed. He banged on the door incessantly. The pounding made Danny's head begin to do the same.

There was a speaker panel beside the door. A voice came through, sleepy and just as irritable as Flack's. "Yes! What? Who is there?"

Danny pressed the outside 'talk' button and leaned closer to the box. "Robert Jans? We're with the NYPD. We have some questions for you regarding Alan Fraser."

A pause. Then, "Alan? Why? Has something happened to Alan?"

"Mr. Jans, can you open the door please?" Flack interrupted. "This really shouldn't be done through a box in the wall."

The door buzzed, and then swept open. Robert Jans had been obviously handsome in the lock box photo, but his physical presence put the image to shame. He was Flack's height, but his limbs were longer, his body whip-thin. There was a promise of finely sculpted muscle through the blue silk robe he wore, and his sharp collarbone was visible. From here a long, slender neck flowed up into a face that was worthy of fashion magazine spreads. It was difficult to tell if he was more striking than beautiful, or the other way around. His face had not an ounce of excess flesh on it, being all tight, smooth, flawless fair skin spread over razor-edge cheekbones and brazen bone structure. He was all hard angles, save for round, sky blue eyes, and a full, softly curved mouth.

"Please, come inside," he said without preamble.

Once more, Danny was surprised by Jans. His apartment was not decorated in harmony with the building's traditional style. The walls held the same architectural detailing, but they were all painted stark white. The furniture was also classical in silhouette, but covered with fabrics of shocking modern hues: violet, red, peacock blue, and green. Photography prints were hung around the room, black and white nudes with the occasional picture of the city, another combination of hard angles and sensuous curves. Jans turned on a fireplace, where flames leaped above a bed of quartz crystals. In his drunken state, Flack found himself transfixed by the flickering display.

"Please, sit down."

Danny took a seat on the peacock blue sofa, and tugged Flack's sleeve until he joined him. Jans took one of the two violet chairs opposite an incredible coffee table made of layered agate slices inlaid into a silver-painted base with Victorian styling.

"Did something happen to Alan?" Jans asked. His voice was accented, but he spoke clearly. "Is he all right?"

Danny removed a picture from his pocket. "Mr. Jans, is this Alan Fraser?"

Jans looked at the picture. His lips tightened. "Yes, this is Alan. Why? Why does he look like that? Has he been hurt?"

"He's dead," Flack said indelicately. Danny shot him a look, and he added, "Sorry."

"What do you mean? He can't be dead!" Jans exclaimed angrily. "What are you saying? Was there an accident? Is he hurt, or-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jans, but Alan was found dead in his apartment last night," Danny told him, trying to make up for Flack's lack of sympathy. "He was murdered."

Jans stared between the two men. "That … That can't be."

"It is," Flack said simply.

"Oh my God." Jans sank back into the chair, like a doll devoid of stuffing. His hand covered his mouth. "Alan. Oh my … Oh my _God_!"

Jans buried his face in his hands. He was muttering something in another language, crying. Danny and Flack waited patiently, Flack staring into the fireplace blankly. After a few minutes, Jans rose from the chair abruptly. He walked into another room, and they heard water running. When he returned, his face was moist, but his eyes were dry. He fetched a pack of cigarettes from a desk, lit one, and returned to his violet wingback chair. His sky-shade blue eyes were clouded as they looked at Danny and Flack.

"He is dead, in that picture?"

Danny pocketed the photo. It was procedure to make one autopsy picture look as lifelike as possible, so it did not spook witnesses when presented. He always suspected they weren't fooling anyone with these shots, and Jans's reaction confirmed that opinion.

"Yes."

"Murdered?" Jans's voice hitched. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke. His slender fingers rubbed his temple, then impatiently pushed his lank blond hair off his forehead. "That makes no sense. Who would want to kill Alan? Everyone who met him, loved him. He was very popular at his precinct."

"You can't think of any enemies he had made?" Danny asked. "Anyone that might want to hurt him?"

"He was police, I'm sure he had arrested some people that would want revenge," Jans said. He shook his head. "But I don't know who they are. When he came here to be with me, he didn't talk about work at all. When we were together … it was … it was an escape, you know?"

Jans wiped his eyes, sniffed. He waved smoke away from around his head, before taking another drag and blowing out more.

"What about your relationship?" Flack asked. "Was there anyone you know of that was offended by it?"

"No," Jans said, frowning deeply. "Why would you ask that?"

"It's possible that it was a hate crime," Flack said. "Do you know anyone that has acted specifically homophobic towards you or Fraser?"

"No one knew about Alan," Jans said. "We were very careful and very discreet. He was very- Not ashamed, you know? But he was afraid."

Jans gave Flack a pointed look. "He was afraid of how his fellow police would see him. He knew they would insult him."

"But someone had to know," Danny said. "You can't hide everything, not in this city."

"When he came here, he used a false name," Jans said. "He wore different clothing. He was disguised, always. We never went to his apartment. I have never even set foot on his street. He even dated girls sometimes."

"And you had no problem with that?" Flack inquired.

"No," Jans said. He flicked ashes into a curved glass ashtray on a table between the two violet chairs. "I understood why he had to hide himself. People can be cruel. I deal with cruelty by kicking it in the ass. Alan was just not so confrontational. That's why I don't know why anyone would murder him."

Flack leaned back in the sofa, writing his notes. "Do you have any enemies?"

"No."

"Not one?" Flack asked, lifting his head from his notes. "Even after kicking cruelty in the ass for so long?"

Jans's eyes narrowed. "I've had feuds and fights, but nothing serious. Besides, I've stopped all that, after meeting Alan. There is no grudge anyone has that would lead them to Alan, definitely not to murdering him."

"What about anyone you met in your former profession?" Danny asked. He glanced around the apartment. "Is it so former?"

"You mean, whoring?" Jans asked bluntly. He inhaled cigarette smoke. "I did not whore to get this apartment. My family is in Denmark. They send me money. They always have."

"Then why sell yourself?"

"It was never for the money," Jans explained. "It was for the sex, and the danger. There is something … appealing. About being a valuable commodity, you know?"

"No, I don't know," Danny said flatly.

"Well to everyone their own pleasure," Jans said nonchalantly. "Are you finished, detectives? I would like to … I would like to see Alan. Now."

"His parents are flying in to identify the body," Danny said. "Once they have, we'll call you. You can come down and pay your respects."

Without asking, Jans reached across the coffee table and snatched Flack's notepad and pen from him. Flack squawked a protest, but Danny barred him from standing up. Jans scribbled something on the page, and then tossed notepad and pen onto the coffee table.

"Call my cell, my direct line is private," Jans said. "If you need anything at all, please, do call me. I need to see who has done this. I need to know why anyone would do something so evil."

The three men stood. Flack retrieved his notepad and pen.

"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Jans."

Two pairs of blue eyes lit on Danny with impatience. He ignored Flack and Jans both. He brought out another picture and showed it to Jans.

"Do you own a set of restraints like these?" Danny asked. "They yours? Or Fraser's?"

"No, no, Alan wasn't into any of that," Jans said, chuckling affectionately. "But hold on. May I?"

Danny handed him the picture. Jans held it close to his eyes, squinting at it. He tapped a spot.

"There, this logo, I know this brand." He handed the picture back to Danny, pointing the spot out to him. "These are custom luxury products manufactured by Gilded Glove, hence the 'GG' logo. Many people order their goods, but I do know that the club I used to work for only uses their products."

"And what club was that?" Danny asked.

"Eden of Desires," Jans said. He gave them the address. "But … I had no trouble with anyone there. I quit my job there, and who cares? They pay very well. They always have someone wanting to work there. It can't be connected to Alan's death."

"Well, if these restraints are theirs, then it is," Danny said. He took Jans's hand and shook it. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Jans."

"Yes. Thank you, detective."

* * *

"What did you think?"

Danny considered as they made their way back to the elevator.

"He looked pretty shaken up by the news," Danny said. "He calmed down quickly and was comfortable being interviewed, but that could be because he's had run-ins with the law before. Probably popped a pill in the bathroom, too. You see his pupils?"

"Yeah."

"But he still looked broken up, even when he had calmed down," Danny said. "We'll have to check out some things, like his parents sending him this kind of cash from Denmark. What he said about Fraser being closeted seemed legit, in line with his apartment and his friends not having a clue that he was gay."

"I don't trust him," Flack said. "Nothing about it makes any sense. Fraser was private and a simple, good guy. Jans flaunts his lifestyle, he's got that 'don't give a shit' Euro trash attitude. Guy's a study in contradiction," Flack said. "He's rich, but he whores himself out. He's out of the closet, but he dates a guy that's borderline paranoid about anyone finding out he's gay. He breaks the law, then falls in love with a cop. He admits to fighting with people, but says he has no enemies."

"Yeah, but different kinds of people can fall in love," Danny said. "Even total opposites. Maybe he compromised a little for Fraser, and Fraser compromised a little for him."

"Yeah, and how well does that ever work out?"

Danny scowled. "That's low."

"What?"

They entered the elevator and Danny punched the button.

"Oh, you thought I meant you and Mac?" Flack asked. "I wasn't talking about you guys!"

"Forget it."

Danny's hands were shoved into his coat pockets, and he was glaring at the floor. He was normally good at disconnecting from crimes emotionally, but this one had found him on a vulnerable night. Everywhere he turned in the case, he saw similarities to his relationship with Mac. At the same time, he resented the case itself. It was unfair, he knew, but he wanted to close it so that he could get back to resolving things with Mac. It had been almost a year since they had discussed the possibility of giving it another go. Danny had not realized until yesterday how much he had been longing for the chance.

"We going to check out this club?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Danny said. "Might as well. But after this, I'm done. I need some sleep. So do you."

"I need another drink, is what I need."

Danny bristled, but he was too exhausted to fight. If it came to it, he would let Mac deal with the defiant detective. He didn't like Mac paying attention to Don, but he knew no one else could handle him quite as well as Mac could.

_No one handles anything as well as Mac does, _Danny reflected. _But he can't handle himself. Don't get me wrong, he's perfect on the surface: strong, reliable, professional. But he can't deal with his feelings. Inconvenience, that's it. He puts anything inconvenient into a safe, locks it, throws the key away, and buries it six feet under. Even if those secrets burrow into his heart and poison it like a cancer. _

_But I saw it in his eyes before I came out here with Flack. Behind the injured pride and the anger. I saw what he was trying to hide. And if he's as desperate to be with me as I am to be with him, then maybe there's a chance. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor". Who knows? Maybe if I ask hard enough, he'll tell me. I'd give anything to hear him tell me he loves me again._

* * *

**1:20 AM, January 13, 2010**

**Eden of Desires Pleasure Club, Manhattan, New York**

"Hey, I know this place!"

Danny swung around on the street in surprise. He looked from Flack, who was grinning, back to the club. Perhaps Mac's discipline four years ago had had more of an impression on Flack than he had thought.

"Yeah?" Danny asked. "You, uh, use this place often, then?"

"What? No!" Flack exclaimed. His cheeks reddened, not only from the cold. "No, I busted this place when they opened up, back when I was working Vice. Guess they got their legal ducks in a row by now. How about that?"

Flack took the lead, striding up to the place. Danny followed. He glanced at the hours, and was relieved that the club did business until 3:00 AM. He had a feeling that a high-end sex club like this might also allow after hours appointments for its jet-setting, corporation-running clientèle.

Inside, they were greeted by a chic ultra-modern lobby. It was monochromatic, with vivid color photography depicting tastefully sensual nudes. Each picture was themed after a fetish, glorifying a body part, a position, or a suggestion of violence or bondage. As with the luxury apartment building, the elevators were locked down; there were keycard slots beside them. After badge-flashing and some choice tough words from Flack, the receptionist sent for the club's manager.

This person turned out to be a wiry little man with brown hair. He wore skinny jeans, a black and white graphic tee, and a charcoal cardigan sweater, and had a hip painter's brush mustache. Upon seeing Flack, he whirled around on his heels, clenched his fists, and then whirled back. Flack's grin widened further.

"Miss me?"

"You get out of my club!" the man snapped peevishly. "Get out! We have licenses! We were never doing anything illegal in the first place! I told you, we provide adult services for adult customers!"

"Adult customers that might provide a little adult murder now and then?"

The man blanched. "What are you _talking _about? What murder? No one's been murdered!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, enough," Danny interrupted. "Both of you. Can I get a name?"

"And here I thought we knew each other so well," Flack said. Danny shot him an evil look, and he shut his mouth, though only to suppress laughter. The path of drunkenness had led him into the land of hilarity by now.

"_My name_ is Edmund Ragno," the manager introduced himself, still glaring at Flack. "I am the manager and part owner of the Eden of Desires Pleasure Club."

"Pleasure Club," Danny echoed doubtfully.

"Yes." Ragno crossed his arms defensively, lifting his mousy little face. "We do not sell cheap sex and bathroom blow jobs, _officers_. We provide provocative services of the highest quality to those who have fine taste in fantasy. We are the connoisseurs of-"

"Of the sex trade," Flack chimed in.

"-of adult entertainment," Ragno finished, glowering up at Flack. "We are a perfectly legal operation. Now what are you talkin' about, murder? What murder? Who's dead?"

"Hey, we're askin' the questions here, Ragno," Flack said. "You remember how this goes, don't you?"

Ragno puffed up even further, but said nothing. His thin lips turned down beneath his wiry mustache, and his lively hazel eyes narrowed.

"All right," Danny said. "Now, Mr. Ragno, do you recognize these?"

He handed Ragno the picture of the restraints. Ragno whipped out small round wire-frame glasses and set them pertly on his nose. He squinted through these at the picture. It did not take him long to nod in recognition.

"Yes, these are from the club," he said, handing the picture back to Danny. "You see the vine etching in the metalwork? We paid to have that design made exclusively for Eden of Desires."

"Glad you're so proud," Danny said dryly. "You're gonna love the publicity you get after it's announced that your exclusive bondage gear was found at a crime scene."

"Oh, I knew I should have reported it," groaned Ragno, rubbing his face in aggravation. "Goddamn it all to hell. Is this place ever going to be rid of misfortune?"

"Should have reported what?"

"We were robbed," Ragno sighed. "All restraints like these, about seven pairs."

"So why didn't you report it?" Flack asked accusingly.

"You think anyone would take it seriously?" Ragno shot back. "Would _you _take it seriously, Detective Flack?"

"No," Flack laughed outright. "No, it'd be laughed out of the precinct."

"Flack!" Danny exclaimed. "What the hell?"

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Flack sauntered away, though she went on, "Stolen bondage crap. Oh Jesus. Ha ha ha!"

While Flack busied himself staring openly at the erotic art, Danny took Ragno aside. Ragno's hostility waned. He looked Danny up and down in frank appraisal.

"You're cute," Ragno remarked. "You have real urban appeal. I know a few guys that would love to have you sub for them. Interested?"

Danny's eyes widened. "No."

"Sure? One night here will earn you at least double your monthly paycheck," Ragno told him. "What's it to you? A few nights on your stomach, maybe some bruises-"

"Right, right, right, I'll think about it," Danny said cynically. "Look, Ragno, so someone stole seven sets of restraints from your club. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And when was this?"

"Let's see, ahh … about three weeks ago," Ragno said. "The end of December. This place is a mess after the holiday rush, and we had just gotten a new shipment of gear for the January rush. Security might not have been as, well, secure as is usual. We were also rebooting the security systems, so cameras were down. Like I said, it was a mess."

"So, you've got no suspects, nothing?"

"No, nothing," Ragno said miserably. "Like I said, we get a lot of clients at the end of December, holiday blues and all that. It's the best we can do just to keep everything cleaned."

"So, your thief, he must have had knowledge of the way things work around here," Danny said. "He would have to know about the holiday rush, and the security system reboot."

"Could be someone working here, if that's what you mean," Ragno said. "I don't know how that would help you, though. We have twenty permanent entertainers, one hundred and fifty staff members, and we also have freelance entertainers."

"Freelance?"

"Well, yes." Ragno remembered his glasses and removed them, wiping them on his shirt. "Not everyone wants their name officially attached to our club. Your Detective Flack is not the only one that views this club as something dirty. So, we allow interested parties to come in and do a few jobs here. Some are even allowed to wear masks throughout an entire session, if a client is game. Pay is exchanged from hand to hand, in cash."

"So no records are kept on these people at all?"

"No," Ragno said. "But I do have to approve of all outside entertainers. I know their faces, though I'm sure the names they give are always fake."

"All right." Danny handed Ragno the picture of Alan Fraser. "Do you recognize this man?"

Ragno put his glasses on again. "No, I don't. I'm very good with faces, Detective- What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. But it's Messer. Danny Messer."

"Cute name."

"Would you stop callin' me cute?" Danny grumbled. "What about Rober Jans? Remember him?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Ragno said dreamily. "Gorgeous man, a real work of art. I tried my ass off to keep him here, but he was done with it. Such a waste. He had clients booked for months on end."

"Any of these clients the jealous type? The type who might not have appreciated Jans leaving the club to be with our victim, Alan Fraser?"

"Our clientèle is far too busy and self-absorbed to become obsessed with an adult entertainer," Ragno said. Nonetheless, he leaned against the reception counter, thinking. "No, I can't think of anyone that would take it so far. It's been years, you know, since Jans quit."

"You wouldn't give me any names even if you had them, though, right?" Danny said knowingly. "Nice place like this, you must get pretty important people. Society pages people, right?"

Danny could see Ragno's guards going up.

"Sometimes."

"Not people who would appreciate being named to the NYPD, I'm guessing," Danny went on. "So what is it, Ragno? You can't think of anyone, or you can't think of anyone whose business you'd want to lose?"

Ragno wisely said nothing. The answer was obvious in his eyes, however. Danny shook his head in disgust.

"We have a standard of privacy to maintain, Detective Messer," Ragno explained. "I will tell you that I can't see anyone having a reason to go after Jans, let alone his boyfriend."

"Any clients that are specifically sadistic against gay men?"

"I don't understand what you're asking," Ragno said. "Sexuality is expressed freely here. No one comes here to batter anyone out of hatred. It's all fantasy games, pleasure. As I said, the Eden of Desires Club maintains a very high standard. Our clients simply like to engage in less vanilla fantasies."

"Yeah, well, we think this murder was someone's idea of a kinky fantasy," Danny said. "You hear me? You have any clients into fantasies like that?"

"No way, no," Ragno said. He shuddered. "Detective Messer, I am a proud bisexual. One of the reasons this club allows so much anonymity is to embrace all kinds of sexual curiosities, inclinations, and even experiments. I would never- Believe me, Detective Messer, I would _**never **_allow the kind of sick bastard you're describing to partake in this club's offerings."

Danny's shoulders sagged. All this time, and he had the sinking feeling that they had even less than they had started with. The case was going in circles. No one said anything, no one had any reason to do anything, no one knew anything, and yet a man was lying dead in the Medical Examiner's office.

"Well, if you think of anything, call me over at CSI." Danny handed him his card. "Since I'm guessing that you don't want to communicate with Detective Flack, am I right?"

"Righter than rain," scoffed Ragno. "But it was nice to meet _you_, Detective Messer. Do consider my offer, will you? You can always freelance."

"Yeah, uh, thanks but no thanks."

Danny went to retrieve Flack. He found him staring at a portrait of masculine hands curled around the handle of a whip. Danny glanced at him, but Flack's face was blank. He may have been staring at the picture, or straight through it. Danny tapped his shoulder, and Flack nearly jumped.

"What?" Flack looked around, and remembered where he was. "Oh, hey, Danny. Get anything?"

"Not much," Danny admitted. "Come on. Let's get out of here before Ragno signs me up as an encore or an entrée or whatever the hell he serves in this place."

Flack laughed, putting his arm around Danny's shoulders on the way out. Danny tensed, not exactly comfortable with the contact given their setting. He was fond of Flack, even thought him relatively attractive, but he had no desire to get too close.

"Sucks that the leads have dried up, but hey, at least we get a break," Flack said. They exited the building onto the street. "Come on, let's grab a drink before we go home. On me."

"No!" Danny exclaimed. "Flack, you're freaking flyin' here. One more drop, and your liver's gonna disintegrate."

"I'm no CSI, but I've never heard of that happening before," Flack said. "Come on. I'm driving, so it's not like you've got a choice."

"Don, I'm telling you-"

"It's fine, it'll be fine. Loosen up, Danny. Jeez. You were with Mac too long," Flack said. "You used to be more fun than this."

They got into the car.

"This isn't fun, Flack," Danny said. "This is a suicide in progress."

Flack's mouth twitched, but he managed a smile. "It's not a suicide. It's a drink between friends. Let's go."

Given that Flack was driving, Danny knew further argument was futile. He buckled himself in and threw his head back against the seat. He did not cross himself in prayer to survive, but it was close.


	5. Chapter 5

**05**

**2:32 AM, January 13, 2010**

**CSI Building, New York**

"Mac, you all right?"

Stella sat herself on the chair opposite Mac's desk. She never did ask whether he wanted her company or not. Anyone else might have thought her arrogant, but Mac knew her better. Stella never hid her concern. She was tactfully discreet, but she always got to the root of the problem. Of all the people Mac knew, only Stella Bonasera could disarm him before he even knew what she was up to.

"Yeah, Stella," Mac said carefully. "It's just this case. Sometimes they just … "

"Stick with you, I know," Stella said. "I get it, Mac, I do. But is that all it is?"

"It's all it is," Mac lied. "All there can be. This case is going to be my entire world until it's solved. You see that, don't you?"

"And there's no room for Danny in that world?"

Mac sat up straighter, folding his hands on the desk. "What is this, Stella? You've been the only one to have my back since Danny and I split. Now you're suddenly throwing me back at him? Did he pay you a bribe or something?"

"No, he hasn't, not that he hasn't tried to in the past," Stella said. "Mac, it's … It's Lindsay. You and Danny have been split up for a while, but I never realized how wrong it was until he started seeing her."

"You're just trying to protect Lindsay from a broken heart," Mac said. "But you have to talk to Danny about that, Stella, not me. I can't stop him from making bad choices. That isn't my place anymore."

"I saw the way you were watching him, Mac," Stella said. "I do feel bad for Lindsay, but this is for you, Mac. You're my best friend. And I saw you in pain, Mac. I saw you watching him. Don't tell me that seeing them together didn't give you a few revelations of your own."

"The only revelation I had was that Danny was playing with someone else's heart instead of mine," Mac said. "Listen, Stella, I talked to him about it. All he did was try to get me back."

"Do you want him back, Mac?"

"Yes."

Stella opened her mouth, but was thrown by the frank reply. She sat back, pondering Mac. Mac smiled humorlessly.

"I love Danny," Mac said. "I have for some time. It isn't possible to shut those feelings off. Even after all this time, I love him. I probably always will. Do I want to go back to the way we were? Of course I do. But realistically, we can't. I can't, Stella."

"Did you tell Danny this?"

"No," Mac muttered. He leaned back in his chair, met Stella's eyes directly. "Things are painful and ugly, but they're how they have to be right now. Complicating matters by professing love and impossible desires would only hurt everyone involved."

Stella nodded, though she did not look convinced.

"You know what Danny asked me tonight, Stella?"

"No, what?"

"He asked me to imagine him lying down in Autopsy," Mac said darkly. "Can you believe that?"

"Ahh, yeah, I can believe it," Stella said. "Danny Messer is a shameless brat. Weren't you the one who told me that?"

Mac smiled. "I did. I stand by it, too. Sometimes, Stella, the team drives me insane."

"So your frustration isn't all aimed at Danny?"

"No, the rest of it is due to his best friend, Flack," Mac said. "I understand what he's going through, Stella, but if he can't get his act together, I'm going to have to report him. I don't really see any other choice."

"Everyone mourns differently, Mac."

Mac drew a breath, turning his gaze out the window. It was not only mourning, but he could never tell anyone that. In the aftermath of Angell's murder, Flack had taken justice into his own hands. It was a secret Mac had not even let Flack know that he shared, and he intended to keep it that way. The problem with this was that he could never tell Flack to let that one horrible mistake go, since he did not officially know it.

Guilt. Mac had seen it destroy men that had done lesser and worse things than shooting an unarmed killer to avenged a loved one. In the moment, in combat, survival and adrenaline overwhelmed moral consideration. Every day was a set of moments chained together by simple willpower. It was in the quiet moments following the fight that guilt finally began to fall into the mind, tiny droplets of doubt smattering across the surface of the soul. In the end, the guilt would either drain away into acceptance … or burst.

"He needs post-trauma counseling," Mac finally said. "If I have to drag him to it, I will, but right now we still need him on this case."

"Is it fair to keep him on, though?" Stella asked. "You of all people must know how dangerous Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is."

"Flack can be convincing. He fooled me," Mac said. "When he went missing during the Compass Killer case, I found him, took him to task, and he was fine after that. At least, he seemed fine. I had no idea he was still drinking so heavily."

"Why do you think he was drinking at our usual bar tonight?" Stella asked. "It was like he wanted to be seen. A cry for help?"

"It's possible," Mac said thoughtfully. "If he's circling the drain, he might just be trying to break out of this depression. No one does that alone."

"So he subconsciously took himself where he knew you would see him," Stella surmised. "To get your attention, make you call him on his behavior."

Another possibility occurred to Mac. He tapped his pen on his desk, his mind working. Could this have something to do with four years ago?

Mac was not a physically expressive person. He kept his face controlled, and he was not prone to blush. He felt a small jump in the chest, however, and was aware of his pulse speeding. He stopped tapping the pen.

_Four years ago was an indulgent mistake, _Mac thought. _I know that. It was a terrible abuse of power, practically sexual harassment. I had no right to do that to Don, none whatsoever. Then, I lost myself, let myself get sloppy, get involved. Granted, I never once expected Don to respond the way he did. I thought he would be pissed, then move on. I didn't think he would be attracted to me, or that I was so strongly attracted to him. _

_Still, he told me that it could never happen again, and I agreed. We had a great time, but I still wanted Danny, and Don still wanted to find a girlfriend. I thought that was the end of it._

"Mac?" Stella asked. "You still with me here?"

"Yeah, it's nothing," Mac lied. "Where are we on the case, Stella?"

Stella described the current state of the evidence, and the tests being run. Mac listened attentively, but the rest of his mind kept working.

_If this is a rehash of four years ago, if Don really wants me to- _

_I never once considered being with Don again. It never even crossed my mind, not even when Danny and I broke up. Of course, I haven't considered being with __**anyone**__ after breaking up with Danny. It isn't even a possibility yet, and … is that hope? Is that what it is? Am I hoping that Don wants me again?_

Mac inhaled subtly, letting his breath out through his nose slowly. _I've been alone for too long._

"Where are you tonight, Mac?"

"Hm?" Mac pushed aside his thoughts. "Oh, just tired. My mind is at home, in bed, waiting for my body to join it."

"We should break while the tests run," Stella said. "Everyone has pretty much reached their limit."

"I agree. I'll start making final rounds to see where everyone is, and then-"

Mac's phone went off. He gave Stella a beleaguered smile, and answered it. The smile fell into a pained look. Stella gave him a sympathetic look.

"Now what?"

Mac was on his feet, putting on his jacket. "I've gotta go, Stella. Can you wrap things up here for now?"

"Sure, of course," Stella said, surprised. "Did something happen?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with the case, this is … personal," Mac said grudgingly. "No reason to worry, Stella. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Okay." Stella put a hand on his shoulder briefly. "Get some rest, okay?"

"I'll try."

* * *

**2:45 AM, January 13, 2010**

**McCullen's Avenue Tavern, New York, New York**

Mac felt a sense of deja vu as he entered McCullen's for the second time in the very long night. Less than six hours ago, the entire CSI team had been making a night of it here. While they had been laughing and drinking, Alan Fraser had been lying dead in his apartment. While he had been busying himself trying not to be jealous of Danny and Lindsay, Flack had been drinking himself into a stupor. No matter how much time he gave to the job, Mac always felt there was never enough of it.

Danny came over to Mac immediately. The bar was nearly empty, and quiet, as far as bars went. The same bartender, the owner McCullen, glanced up at Mac and Danny. He nodded discreetly towards Flack, who was once more drowning himself at a table.

"Thank God you're here," Danny said gratefully. He was too exhausted to even take up any of their previous conversations. "Flack was driving, and he drove here. I don't know what to do with him. I've tried to use everything I can, but he won't listen to me."

"I understand," Mac said. "Danny, you should get home, get some rest. Here. Take the SUV, you can bring it in in the morning."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I got this."

Danny glanced at Flack, back at Mac. Despite his misgivings, staying out any later than this would render him unable to even drive home. He agreed, took the keys, and left the bar. There would be other long nights, less busy, to tend to personal matters.

Flack was still in a state of constant amusement. He was snickering into his glass at some private joke, not even noticing when Mac sat across the table from him.

"This is a familiar scene," Mac said.

Flack looked up. It took him a moment to focus. When he recognized Mac, he grinned widely, though his heart skipped a beat.

"Mac! Hey! You still up? Here, join me. Come on. One for the night."

Mac studied him, eyes narrowed. Flack's grin wavered.

"I _said_, this is familiar," Mac repeated. "A big open case. You, nowhere to be found, and then when you are found, you're found stinking drunk. What the hell is the-" Mac slammed his hand on the table. "-_**matter **_with you?"

Flack stared at him, eyes round. He was trying to voice a protest, but could only stammer unintelligibly. Mac stood, grabbed him by the arm, and lifted him to his feet. It took quite an effort, given Flack's drunken limpness, but he managed.

"Hey, wait, I paid for that bottle!" Flack protested. "Hey! I haven't even paid for it, actually, I've gotta-"

McCullen, not looking up from wiping the counter, called, "I'll put it on your tab."

Mac took a firmer grip on both Flack's shoulders, and half pulled, half dragged him out of the pub. He turned him around on the street, shaking him by the shoulders. Flack did not struggle.

"Keys," Mac demanded. Once he had Flack's car keys, he yanked him to the car. He opened the passenger side seat. "Get in."

"Mac, come on, I can get myself home, you don't need to babysit me." He laughed. "Or maybe that's one of your fantasies, huh, Mac?"

"I said, get in!" Mac shouted sternly. "Get in the car, or I swear to God, Don, I'll take this badge off, and I will put you through the goddamn street. And it _won't _be with a spanking, I promise you that. GET IN THE CAR!"

Flack got in the car. Mac went around to the driver's side. He wasted no time in starting it up and pulling away from McCullen's. Flack looked at him, but he refused to meet his gaze. He fumed silently for a long time, trying to get his temper in check.

"Do you think that you're the only one who's ever had a tough time, Don?" Mac asked, glancing at him. "Do you think that?"

Flack shrugged. "No. But so what? I don't care that-that Bozo John down the corner lost ten kids and a wife. Yeah, it sucks, but do _you_ care about every poor bastard that caught a tough break? Did _you_ go through your military career bawlin' for every kid that got blown to pieces? What is- What is the point of that, anyway? What's the point of not being the only one? What does that do to make anyone feel better?"

"The _point_ is that not everyone that catches a tough break and feels like shit takes it out on everyone around them," Mac said. "That 'Bozo John' might be a childless widower, but he probably doesn't go down to work and act like a whiny little brat."

"Yeah, but with a name like that, he probably goes postal."

Flack laughed at this image, while Mac glared at him.

"Then go postal, Don," Mac said. "Or quit. Don't drag down the entire NYPD with these antics. Don't take time out of my work. Don't dodge counseling and hide out in bars while you're on duty. You're better than that."

"Why do you think that?" Flack asked. "Oh, yeah, I remember. Because I'm the fuckin' asshole that thought he was better. I really did. Better than my sister, hey, why not? I'm the cop, the next generation, Don Flack, Jr. Yeah. Well, maybe I was wrong about that after all. Joke's on me, right?"

"It isn't about being better than your sister or anyone else," sighed Mac. He rubbed his temple, trying to stall an oncoming headache. "It's only who you are. You're a great cop, and that has nothing to do with family expectations or blood. That's you, Don, not this. I know you want to understand your sister's pain, but the truth is, you never will. You don't have the capacity for it."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know you," Mac said. "I know you well enough that I saw the look in your eyes at that crime scene last night. You were scared, horrified. If you wanted to die, you wouldn't have had that look."

Flack stared at his hands moodily. He hadn't thought that anyone had caught his moment of doubt. He felt transparent, and cursed Mac Taylor inwardly.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to die," Flack admitted. "But I do want to drink. And I don't need some self-styled surrogate father to tell me that I can't. If you have a problem with me professionally, report me. Don't chaperon me out of a bar like that, ever."

They parked outside of Flack's building. Mac shut off the car, pocketed the keys, and turned to Flack. Don raised his head, all obnoxiously intoxicated defiance. With the flush on his face and the wounded look in his eyes, Mac was strongly reminded of four years ago.

"I'll do what I have to. Let's go."

Without waiting for any kind of response, Mac got out of the car. Flack stumbled out, tripping on the curb. Mac took hold of him to keep him on his feet. How many men had he helped to walk like this? In the war, after the war, it was all so horribly commonplace; men succumbing to the embrace of alcoholic oblivion when all their other strengths finally failed.

"Here, come on," Mac said gently, guiding him. "You can sleep it off."

"Get off of me, Mac! God!" Flack exclaimed belligerently. He pushed away from Mac, stumbling towards his building. "Just give me my damn keys and go. I can take care of myself, and if I can't, tough! It's none of your business!"

His voice echoed in the quiet, snow-whirled street. Mac ignored him, though he was braced to deal with any streak of violence that might come. Don made no move to fight him, however. Mac didn't think he had the coordination to even try. He took Flack by the arm again, and pulled him into the building. Inside, he realized that he had no idea which apartment Flack actually occupied.

"Which unit?"

"Huh?" Flack had been leaning on the wall, dozing. "What?"

"What apartment?"

Flack told him, and Mac brought him along. In the hall outside his apartment, Flack slumped to the floor, head rested on his knees. Mac was fatigued from pulling the taller man around, but suffered to help him back to his feet.

"So now what?" Flack asked inside the apartment. "You gonna yell at me, smack me around?"

"Is that what you want?" Mac asked. He tossed the keys onto a side table, along with his badge and gun. "Is that why you're flaunting this crap in front of my face? Do you want me to punish you, Don?"

"Does it matter?" Flack asked. "You obviously do whatever the hell you want, right? So tell me. Are you gonna hit me, Mac?"

Mac gave him a long, searching look. _I'm not angry at him, _he realized. _I tried to be. I thought I would be. But I'm not. All I feel when I look at him now is sadness. I never could stand to see good people go to waste, especially when they're the ones wasting their own lives._

"No," Mac said. "No, I'm not going to hit you, Don."

"You're not?" Don was surprised, then suspicious. Mac thought he saw some disappointment in his eyes, as well. "Why not?"

"Because I don't think that's what you need right now," Mac told him honestly. "What you need is a cold shower and what we all need tonight: some rest."

Mac removed his jacket and walked further into the apartment. He looked around, taking in the details of the place. It was nicely furnished, simple, and despite the clothing and bottles strewn around, held the traces of being neat in its normal state. He noted dog bowls, but there was no trace of an animal.

"What are you doing?" Flack asked, following Mac slowly. "Intervention accomplished. You can go now."

"So you can drive to another bar the moment I'm gone? Or crack a bottle open here?" Mac smiled knowingly. He settled himself on the sofa. "I don't think so."

"But-"

"Where is the dog?"

"What?"

Mac motioned to the pet equipment. "Your dog?"

Flack's face tightened. His eyes glazed, and he stared over at the windows. "She, uh, she died."

Mac stared at him in cautious disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah, I had her with my grandma because-" He gestured vaguely at the room and its evidence of his meltdown. "But grandma hired this dog walker and she just got away from her and … and a car hit her."

"I'm sorry."

"Not surprising, though, right?" Flack asked thickly. He shrugged. "I mean, I can't take care of anyone, dogs, family, friends. That's why I was out at the bar tonight- last night? Whatever."

"Don-"

"Forget it," Flack said. "I … I'm gonna go take a shower, all right? You want to stay, you know, do it at your own risk. Things kind of die around me."

Flack stomped off into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind himself. In some minutes, Mac heard the water running. He turned on the television to find the local news. Surely enough, the preliminary reports concerning the 'brutal slaying' of a 'local hero' were already flooding in. Thus far, word on whether it was a hate crime or not were limited to speculation and rumor. Mac was certain that would all change by the later morning.

Restless, Mac shut off the TV. He stood, and began to idly pick up fast food cartons and empty bottles. He filled two large trash bags, and set them by the front door. Then, he gathered the dog paraphernalia, and shut it into an empty kitchen cabinet.

Mac glanced at the clock when he was done with his borderline-OCD cleansing of the apartment. The shower was taking too long. Men that were constantly entrenched in the darkest depths of human nature learned to set aside the bleakness; if they could not, they quickly washed out, or slowly went insane. Mac was a veteran, in more ways than one. He had learned how to shut out despair and replace it with hope long ago. It was the only thing that kept him going.

Nonetheless, there were times when a situation touched upon too many memories to be ignored. All the possibilities they had seen realized in so many tragedies superimposed themselves upon what reality may hold. Currently, Mac was preoccupied with thoughts of aspirin and razor blades.

Mac knocked on the bathroom door. "Don? You all right in there?"

There was no response. Mac hesitated, torn between the knowledge that he was being paranoid, and the feeling that he might be justified in his anxiety. He knocked and called again. He thought he heard a reply, but it was indecipherable, furthering his concern.

"I'm coming in, Don."

Mac waited, but heard nothing that could qualify as a protest. Drawing a deep breath, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he let himself in.

Mac did not see Flack in the shower, and his heart skipped a beat. He rushed to the shower and drew back the shaded glass doors. To his relief, Flack was in the shower, unscathed. He was on the floor, letting the water run down his body as he sobbed. He looked up at Mac in shocked horror, blue eyes wide and circled in bright red.

"_Mac_?"

Mac's face relaxed. He did not shut the shower doors, but allowed himself to gaze down at Flack. Four years had passed, yet he had a vivid recollection of every plane and curve of Flack's body. His eyes inevitably traveled the man, his mind retracing the feel of him.

"Oh, Don."

Don wiped a hand across his eyes, though the shower had already washed his tears away. "Hey, do you mind?" he muttered. "What are you thinking, coming in here like this, Mac?"

"I was thinking that I've seen it all before, Don," Mac said. His eyes traveled the metal shower rack and shelves, settling on a razor. It was the kind with removable blades.

Flack followed his gaze. "You thought I was going to kill myself? Yeah, if I had the courage to do that, I would have by now, trust me."

"It doesn't take courage to die, Don, it's the easiest thing in the world to run," Mac said. He extended a hand. "Here. Get up."

Flack hesitated, but took Mac's hand. Mac turned off the shower and gave him a towel. Flack stumbled out of the shower. The motion sent his stomach into spasms, and he barely made it to vomit into the toilet. His body was trembling violently. Mac knelt down beside him, waiting while he was sick.

"I'm sorry, Mac," Flack panted, falling back from the toilet. "I didn't want any of this. What am I supposed to do? I can't … I can't stop thinking about it. About Jess, and what I did to that-"

"Stop, don't say another word," Mac cut him off. "I told you before, Don, it isn't for me to hear. You understand?"

Flack nodded tearfully. He held his head in both hands, and his shoulders started to shake. Mac gave him a few minutes before helping him up again. Flack rinsed his mouth out in the sink, and then followed Mac along lifelessly.

The towel fell away, but Mac's mind was as far from sex as it could be. He brought Flack along to his bedroom, helped him into a clean pair of sweatpants. He ordered him into bed, and Flack climbed in. He was still shaking, which worried Mac considerably. He found a quilt and threw it over him, then turned the thermostat up. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing Flack's damp hair off of his face.

"Can I get you anything, Don?" Mac asked. "Have you eaten? You want soup or something?"

"Nah, I couldn't keep anything down," Flack said. He drew a breath, trying to still his shaking body. His heart was racing dangerously fast, and he felt cold. "But Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you maybe stick around?"

Mac took his hand into his own and squeezed it. "I'm not going anywhere, Don."

Flack smiled, embarrassed but relieved. Mac removed his shoes and then got on the bed beside him. He did not lie down fully, but kept a hand on Don's arm.

"You know, I understand what guilt feels like," Mac said. "I've only ever told Danny about this before, but … I lost someone during the AIDs epidemic fallout, back in the '90s."

Flack had been dozing, but his eyes opened up at this. He looked up at Mac in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," Mac said. "His name was, ah-" He cleared his throat, the name sticking in it as it always did. "Jason Hollis. We had a relationship throughout most of the latter '80s, but we had a fight and broke up. When I saw him next, it was in the '90s. He wouldn't let me touch him, Don. Even though the disease was becoming more understood by then, he wouldn't even let me lay a hand on him. When I found out why, I … It was devastating."

"You blamed yourself?"

"Yeah, I did, for a long time." Mac paused. "I still do, some sleepless nights. I told myself that I had been too hard on him, that the breakup was my fault. I blamed myself for never trying again with him. I thought that if we had stayed together, he wouldn't have contracted the disease. I told myself a million things, and all those things ate me up inside while I sat by him and watched his body crumble. I was alone after that, alone for a very long time. I didn't trust myself with anyone else. I was afraid. Scared to death."

Flack sat up beside him, studying him intensely. Even crippled by drink, there was a residue of alertness in him.

"It would have been incredibly easy to stop living then," Mac said. "In a way, I _did_ stop living. It took more courage to learn to live again, to trust myself, to forgive myself, than it did to simply stop."

"So you're saying I'm a coward?"

"I'm saying that you _aren't_ a coward," Mac said. He put a hand on Don's shoulder. "The losses that you've suffered are enough to ruin a man. I know you're trying your best to do exactly that, but you're still here, aren't you? You even drag yourself out of bed almost every morning to go out there and do your job. Why do you think you keep doing that?"

"I dunno. Habit?"

"No, it's for the same reason that you go on living," Mac said. "It's who you are. And you know what? You deserve to be who and what you are. Do you hear me?"

"I'm not you, Mac," Flack murmured. "I don't know what I deserve, but it isn't-"

"It isn't this," Mac said firmly. "No, look at me. Look at me, Don."

Mac reached out and took Don's face in his hand.

"You don't deserve this."

Mac traced the man's features with a finger, searching his eyes. His thumb lingered on Flack's lips, thin but nicely formed. Flack leaned forward, stopped, and then pressed on. He moved Mac's hand away, and kissed him. Mac felt his need crackling through his skin, the alarming speed of his pulse. He kissed him back, his mouth flooding with the taste of mouthwash Don had rinsed with. Four years on, and yet the sensation was familiar as ever.

Mac forced himself to pull away. He held Don back by the shoulders.

"Not again."

Don grinned. "It's the same for you?"

"If by 'the same' you mean 'exactly like four years ago', then yes," Mac said. "And I will tell you what I told you back then: you're emotional, and you don't know what you're doing. Think about this, Don."

"What's there to think about?" Flack asked. "It's not like we haven't been together before, or that we didn't have a great time. We had a great time, right?"

"We did," Mac admitted slowly. "But whatever else you were, you were sober. _And _we weren't in the middle of such a big investigation. Not tonight, Don. Get some sleep, come on."

Flack was already swaying from tiredness. He kissed Mac again, but had to break it off to yawn. Mac shook his head, pushing him back down into the bed. Don touched his face one more time, then rolled onto his side. Before long, he was fast asleep.

Mac checked his watch, set his mind to wake in a set amount of hours, and then lay down. As he put an arm over Don, he was reminded of Danny. He was stricken by an unwelcome pang of guilt before being freed by unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

**06**

**7:05 AM, January 13, 2010**

**CSI Building**

The first thing Stella saw upon returning to work was Danny Messer stalking the halls. The man was frowning as he went to and fro around the lab. His eyes lit on Stella, and he immediately rushed in her direction. Stella suppressed a sigh. She had been fond of Danny once, but since he had broken Mac's heart, she had been nurturing a small grudge against him. The fact that he was currently playing Lindsay Monroe only added to her dislike.

"Stella, hey, there you are," Danny said. "Have you heard from Mac?"

"Should I have heard from Mac, Danny?" Stella asked, continuing on her way to her office. Danny followed along. "He had something personal to take care of, but we had agreed it was time to break for the night. He's probably getting some sleep."

"The 'personal thing' was hauling Flack's ass out of a bar," Danny informed her. "I was the one that called him. But I haven't been able to get a hold of him since, and he's not at home."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I went there before coming in," Danny said. "Mac's a light sleeper, he always answers the door if someone knocks. He didn't answer, so I went in, and it was pretty obvious he hasn't been there since last night."

"You went in?" Stella asked incredulously. "You just broke into Mac's home?"

"I didn't break in!" Danny said defensively. "I still have my spare key."

Stella gave him a look.

"What? It's not like he's ever asked me back for it," Danny said. "Anyway, that's not important right now. What's important is that Mac's missing."

"Mac isn't missing, Danny," Stella said. "If he had to drive Flack home at that hour, he probably decided to crash there."

"Where? At Flack's?"

Danny stopped short, eyes wide. Then, he followed Stella into her office. She removed her coat and slung it over the back of her chair, taking the pause in conversation to sip from her extra large coffee. She sank into her chair, soothed by the robust warmth of the drink.

"Yeah, at Flack's," Stella repeated. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Why _would _he?" Danny asked, taking the chair opposite her desk. He crossed his arms, lost in thought. To himself, he murmured, "Why the hell would he do something like that?"

"Something like what?" Stella asked. "You're not making any sense, Danny. Who cares if Mac spent the night on Flack's couch?"

"It's not him being on the couch that bothers me, Stel."

Stella's eyebrows lifted above her coffee. She set it down slowly, peering at Danny curiously. "What do you mean by that?"

"Do you think Don's a handsome guy, Stella?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," Stella said, surprised by the question. "He has nice eyes, a great smile, nice hair. He's handsome."

"Yeah, he is," Danny said bitterly. "And last night, he was handsome and drunk off his ass. Mac's always had a weakness for cute guys in distress."

"But Flack's not gay, Danny," Stella pointed out. "And Mac wouldn't take advantage of him, even if he were."

"You may be Mac's best friend, Stel, but you don't know him the way I do," Danny said quietly. "He doesn't lose control often, but when he does, he gets intense. Did he ever tell you what happened with Flack four years ago?"

"Four years ago?" Stella echoed, thinking back. "I know he and Flack were feuding over busting that cop, but they got over it after a while."

"They didn't just get over it, though," Danny told her. "Can you promise me you won't tell Don I'm telling you this?"

"Okay."

Danny leaned forward, closer to the desk. Stella did likewise. She had the faint impression of being a young girl sharing secrets in school. Danny explained the events of four years ago to her, as her eyes got wider and wider.

"You're kidding!" she said at the conclusion of the story. "No. Mac Taylor did something like that? And to _Flack_? No!"

"Oh yeah," Danny said. "I didn't see the thing, but trust me, it happened. Didn't you notice how the next day, Flack was kind of on his feet as much as possible?"

"Come to think of it, you're right," Stella said. "But I thought he was just restless."

"Flack's a detective, he loves the chance to get off his feet," Danny pointed out. "At least, he does when he's not too sore to sit down."

Stella could not help herself, she burst into laughter. Danny was still preoccupied with worry over Mac's whereabouts, but he cracked a grin.

"Oh jeez, it's not funny," Stella said. "It's not. Poor-" She choked down a few more laughs. "Oh, poor Flack. I can't believe he fell for it, though."

"Well, Don's either really perceptive, or he's completely clueless," Danny said. "It wasn't one of his finer moments. Anyway, you see what I mean? They've already had some kinky history."

"But they didn't sleep together," Stella said. "Or did they?"

"I-" Danny broke off, and his frown returned. "I don't think so. I mean, we were in an open relationship, Mac and me, back then. But … No, he would've told me. Right?"

"Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor?"

Danny paled. Stella almost felt sorry for him. After a moment's troubled consideration, Danny sprung to his feet.

"I gotta go."

"Danny, don't," Stella said wearily. "It has nothing to do with you."

"What do you mean, it's got nothing to do with me?" Danny asked. "Of course it does!"

"Where's Lindsay?"

Danny took a moment to respond. Stella could have sworn he was reminding himself who Lindsay was and why he should care about her. Stella used his moment of bewilderment to finally confront him over his ill usage of Lindsay.

"You don't love her, Danny," she said. "You never did, and you knew you never would."

"I was trying to move on, Stel," Danny said. "I didn't think I had a choice. Come on, you've seen how Mac has been. No matter what I do, he won't forgive me, he won't take me back."

"You cheated on him, Danny!" Stella said, more harshly than she had intended. "After making such a big show about being an honest, proud, loyal couple, you betrayed him! With a _woman_!"

"Come on, it wasn't about that," Danny grumbled. "Mac knows it didn't have anything to do with being with a girl."

"Mac doesn't know that, because you never told him," Stella said. "He spent months wondering what he did wrong, why he wasn't enough for you! It still hurts him, even years later, Danny!"

"He didn't do anything wrong," Danny said. "It was me. It was all me. He doesn't know that?"

"No, he doesn't, and I won't tell him," Stella said coldly. "_You_ hurt him, Danny. If he's moved on with Flack, if he doesn't forgive you, that's all on _you_. And so is Lindsay's heartbreak, when she realizes that you still love Mac."

Danny sank into the chair, holding his head in his hands. Stella fought to remain stern, but she was no Mac Taylor. Sympathy won out, and she came around the desk to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Danny, you aren't the misguided kid you once were," Stella told him. "You've come so far from that place that you're almost unrecognizable. Look at me."

Danny lifted his face, which was washed with misery. Stella gave him a smile, and touched his cheek briefly. She could see how Mac could love him sometimes, when she wasn't furious at him.

"You've come a long way, so why are you still doing your best to fight it?" Stella asked. "Why do you keep making these messes of your life, Danny?"

"I don't know," Danny said honestly. He shook his head in dismay. "I really don't, Stella. When Ruben got shot … I felt numb. My whole life just felt so far away right then, after I saw that kid dead. I don't know why I didn't turn to Mac. All I know is, Ruben's mom … needed. She needed and needed and I thought I should be there for her. I knew what that felt like."

"But Danny-"

"Maybe it was because she was a woman," Danny said. "Maybe I needed to try to be with a woman again. Or maybe I just needed to be needed. Mac loves me, but he doesn't need me."

"You're wrong about that," Stella said. She sat on the edge of her desk. "He's strong, a survivor, but he's still a flesh and blood man. He needs to love, he needs to be loved. He needs you, Danny, because you're his heart."

"He said that?" Danny asked doubtfully.

"No, but he doesn't need to," Stella said. "I _am _his best friend, and I know him well enough to know that he loves you."

"I love him, too," Danny said thickly. "But what can I do, Stel? How can I make him forgive me?"

"Just ask him to," Stella said simply. "Figure out what you want, and tell him. Talk to him. It won't be easy, and you'll have a hell of a time earning back his trust, but if you do love him, don't you think it would be worth it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Danny got to his feet again. "Thanks, Stella."

"You can thank me by being honest to Lindsay, too," Stella said. "Don't lead her on. If you're serious about getting Mac back, then tell her. You have to let her down gently, as soon as possible."

"Yeah, Montana deserves better," Danny said. "For the record, I do care about her. I never meant to hurt her."

"Little late for that," sighed Stella. "Just don't make it worse, okay?"

"Yeah. Right." Danny grimaced. "Now I've gotta go and see about this thing with Flack."

"I hope you're wrong about it," Stella said. "Don has been through so much, I would hate to see him get hurt again. Emotionally, I mean. I'm sure he's still tough enough to survive a spanking."

"Yeah? Well, you didn't see him last night," Danny said. "Don't worry, I won't do anything if it hurts him. Flack's been through enough hell to last a lifetime."

* * *

Flack awoke with a ringing headache. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow, trying to will himself to melt out of existence. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his stomach was lurching. His organs felt heavy and bloated with poison. He broke into a clammy sweat, simultaneously too cold and too warm. He felt so physically spent that he wanted to cry, but he was too exhausted to muster up any tears.

Mac came to beside him. He sat up, stretching his arms, languidly observing Flack. He rubbed the man's back comfortingly. He could feel Flack's racing pulse through his skin, and he frowned in concern.

"Don, are you all right?"

Flack lifted his face from the pillow. He stared at Mac in shock. "What? Why are you? When did you?"

"Don't remember last night?"

"No." Flack sat up slowly. "I was at McCullen's, and Danny was freaking out, and then … You showed up, right? Did you get me out of there?"

"I did," Mac said. "I drove you home. You showered. I got you into bed."

"I kissed you," Flack said, in the tones of one recalling the oddest dream. "Did we-"

"No, we did not," Mac answered quickly. He put a hand on Flack's knee. "I don't think you would have been capable."

Flack put his hand over Mac's. His fingers traced Mac's knuckles, as he contemplated the casual touch. "I've never woken up with a guy before. It feels … different."

"Differently good, or differently bad?"

"Just different," Flack shrugged. He considered. "No, maybe not. It feels safer, like I was being watched out for. It is kind of nice to be the one being taken care of, for once. I feel like I should be embarrassed to be this weak in front of another man, but I'm not."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Mac assured him. "It was just a bad night."

"I'm surprised you're being this nice," Don said. "I thought you would have beat the crap out of me."

"You've been punished enough, Don," Mac said. "Not that I'll let you put me through another night like that again, of course. I half expected you to wake me up choking on bile, or worse. I've never seen anyone come so close to alcohol poisoning."

"I should have quit while I was ahead," Flack said. "Can't you scold me later? My head is killing me."

"I'll go make coffee," Mac offered, climbing out of bed. "But I mean it, Don. If you _ever _pull this crap again, I'm not going to be this tolerant. Understand?"

Flack collapsed in bed again, muffling his face and voice in his pillow. "Yeff."

Mac straightened his clothing the best he could, and put his shoes back on. He ruffled a hand through Flack's soft black hair, and left him. Feeling a bit out of place in the other man's apartment, he went about his morning routine as much as one lacking a toothbrush could, and then put coffee on. Flack dragged himself to the bathroom shortly before the cups were served. When he emerged, he was shaved, brushed, and dressed. He joined Mac at the dining room table and gulped down his coffee despite its heat. As it warmed his throbbing, racing innards, he buried his face in his arms on the table.

"Are you going to be all right to work?" Mac inquired, eying the top of Flack's head dubiously.

Flack lifted his face, resting his chin on his arms. "Yeah. I gotta get back on the Fraser case. What do you guys have for evidence?"

"Not much," Mac said. "There was hardly any trace, and no DNA or fingerprints to be found. However, the murder weapon turned out to be a military issue combat knife, and the boot tread we found was that of a combat boot, about a size thirteen."

"Fraser was a soldier in the National Guard once, right?" Flack asked. "Any connection, you think?"

"We're going to track down as many contacts from the Guard that he might have had," Mac said. "The problem is, they're in his home state of Florida. I know some people down there, I might be able to call in some favors and see if I can get a few of them interviewed. We're also checking to see if anyone Fraser knew in the Guard has since moved to New York."

"A lot of nuts out there are obsessed with combat paraphernalia, though," Flack said. "They're easy to get your hands on, too. It could just be a fanatic using military gear."

"That is possible," Mac agreed. "We're still waiting on some trace results. I'll be sending someone back to the crime scene to see if there's anything we missed last night, as well. Did you and Danny get anything from Robert Jans?"

Flack recounted the interview with Jans, and then the venture out to the Eden of Desires Pleasure Club.

"You'll have to ask Danny about the rest of the details," Don said sheepishly. "I don't remember much of last night."

Mac was surprised that Flack could remember anything at all, but he refrained from comment. Instead, he continued to sip his coffee, considering the new information. The fact that seven sets of restraints had been stolen nagged at him. The killer had had the chance to take the restraints with him from the crime scene, but he had deliberately left them. Seven was a biblically symbolic number, and the name of the pleasure club had the same roots. It was possible that the killer was making a statement against the club. It was also possible that he had stolen seven sets of restraints for the purpose of committing seven murders.

"I want you to put someone to keep an eye on Jans," Mac told Flack. "We don't know if he'll be targeted next."

"Okay," Flack said. "You think this has something to do with that club?"

"Until we find a definite connection between the killer and Fraser, any connection is possible," Mac said. "We know that the club is involved because of the stolen restraints. I'd like to go back there with you later on."

"I don't know, Mac, last time we were together around bondage stuff didn't turn out too well for me."

"You have nothing to worry about, so long as you stay sober."

"More threats."

"Threats … " Mac echoed pensively. He tapped his fingers against the side of his coffee mug. "We should ask the club if they've received any threats, and Fraser's precinct, as well. It is likely this is a hate crime, but one thing about that bothers me."

"Yeah? What?"

Mac stood, bringing his coffee over to the stove. He set it down and went to fetch some things from the refrigerator and cabinets.

"If it was a hate crime, why target Alan Fraser?" Mac asked. "Homophobic people tend to get more aggravated the more blatantly homosexual they perceive a person to be. The more comfortable a person is with their lifestyle, the more the homophobe hates them. Given this pattern, wouldn't the obvious target be Robert Jans, rather than Fraser?"

"Maybe they're saving Jans for later."

"It still doesn't make sense." Mac cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and began stirring them. "The amount of rage involved in murdering Fraser should have been directed at Jans first. The killer even robbed the club where Jans used to work. So why is this all about Fraser?"

"Maybe someone wanted Jans to suffer losing the person he loved," Flack said. His hands tightened around his mug, thinking of Jess. "That's more of a punishment than being murdered."

"If that is the case, the killer must have a personal grudge against Jans," Mac said. "Which would mean that it isn't a hate crime, after all. But then why the overkill?"

"I see what you mean," Flack said. "No theory quite fits."

"No, none of them fit," Mac said. He was cooking the eggs into a scramble. "We need more evidence."

"It's gonna be a long day," Flack muttered.

"At least you don't have to prepare a press conference," Mac said. "I'm going to have to make a statement soon, before rumors get out of control. This is one of our own, and people will want to know we're making every effort to get justice. I have to get home and change. Then, Fraser's parents will be at the ME's office for official identification of their son."

"Jesus," swore Flack. "Hell of a thing to wake up to."

"I know," Mac said grimly. "It is."

"Jans will want to see him, too," Flack said. "I remember him saying that. Danny has his number."

Mac finished cooking the eggs and forked them onto a plate. He set this down in front of Flack, who grimaced.

"I can't," he said. "I don't think I can keep anything down."

"Eat, you're going to need it," Mac ordered. He crossed over into the living room to retrieve his jacket and coat. "It'll help the nausea."

Don cautiously took a bite. His stomach rumbled, announcing its approval. By the time Mac had returned, he was practically inhaling the food.

"What about you?" he asked through a mouthful. "You're not eating?"

"I'll have to grab something on the way," Mac said, putting on his jacket. "I should have been at work an hour ago."

Flack washed down the last few bites with orange juice. "Hey, Mac?"

"Yeah?"

Flack poked at the crumbs on his plate with his fork. He looked up at Mac, and asked, "What about … us?"

Mac finished putting on his coat slowly. Since they had kissed last night, he had been both dreading and anticipating this moment. Flack looked exactly as he would have pictured him: watching him with searching blue gaze, his cheeks lightly flushed, not frowning but with a downward curve to his lips. Mac took in every detail of the sight of him, before finally asking, "Do you want there to be an 'us', Don?"

"Yeah," Flack said softly. "Yeah, I do."

Mac had questions, and some doubts. However, there would be no time to discuss such matters this morning. He ran a hand through Flack's hair, and leaned down to kiss him.

"So do I," Mac murmured when their lips parted. He lifted his head to kiss Flack's forehead, then straightened up. "But I want you to be sure, Don. Think about it. We'll talk later."

Flack smiled, briefly gripping Mac's hand. "Later, Mac."

Mac left the apartment, taking several bags of trash with him on the way out. Flack got to his feet and looked around the place, realizing how clean it was. He laughed to himself, shaking his head. Mac certainly did believe in order, probably as much as he believed in the law.

Once he was done eating, Flack took a minute to make certain that he looked decent, for the first time in weeks. He ran a comb through his hair once more, straightened his jacket, and retrieved his coat from the closet. He opened the door, and was surprised to find Danny Messer outside his door. Messer had his hand raised, just about to knock.

"Hey, Danny," Flack greeted him affably. He was in a good mood this morning, now that the effects of the hangover were subsiding. "What's up?"

Danny was shifting his weight from foot to foot, near bursting with nervous energy. He had an anxious look on his face. "Uh, is Mac here?"

"No."

Danny's heart lifted, but then Flack added, "You just missed him about ten minutes ago."

"What?" Danny's shoulders sagged. "He was here? He spent the night?"

"Uh, yeah." Flack looked Danny up and down, pondering his state. "Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen?"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Inside, Danny paced around for a minute without speaking. Flack leaned against the wall, waiting him out. Danny stopped, glanced around.

"Pretty clean for the scene of a meltdown, Don."

"Yeah, Mac took out some trash this morning."

Danny stopped pacing, gaped over at him. "Mac cleaned your apartment?"

Flack shrugged. "Just picked some stuff up. What's this about, Danny? Are you upset about Mac spending the night here?"

"Am I upset about it?" Danny's lips thinned into a line, and he took a moment to collect himself. "Don, you've been through a lot. I'm your friend, right? I got your back. I wouldn't want to give you crap. You know that, don't you?"

"Sure," Flack said, bewildered.

"But at the same time, man, I … I love Mac."

Flack's eyebrows raised. "I thought that was over. You're going with Lindsay, aren't you?"

"I was trying to," Danny said. "But Don, I can't give up on him. I hadn't realized it until I thought of him bein' with you. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. I can't think about him with someone else."

"You didn't mind the last time we slept together."

"WHAT!"

Flack's eyes widened at the outburst. He glanced away from Danny.

"Uh, I mean, he never told you?" Flack asked. "Four years ago? After you set me up to be- punished?"

"No, he didn't tell me," Danny scowled. He ran both hands through his hair, spiking it. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor. Damn him. Damn that 'open relationship' BS. Damn it!"

Flack wisely said nothing.

"All right, four years ago, whatever, that's done," Danny said, more to himself than to Flack. He turned back to him. "But Don, last night-"

"Look, nothing happened last night," Don said. His mind turned back to the kiss, and he pushed the thoughts aside. "Mac drove me home, he made sure I got in bed. He stayed the night to make sure I didn't get up and get another bottle, or choke on my vomit or something. We didn't do anything. I _couldn't _have done anything, I was practically a zombie by then."

"Nothing happened? You mean, you didn't-"

"We didn't have sex, Danny!" Flack exclaimed. "But what if we had? You guys have been broken up for over two years. What did you think? That Mac would never move on?"

"I _didn't_ think about it, that's my point," Danny said. "I tried to get Mac back, Don. I tried like hell, but he wouldn't forgive me."

"So what's changed, all of a sudden?"

"I can't let him fall in love with you!"

Flack opened his mouth, shut it. His good mood finished dissipating, and he felt a bit of his hangover headache creeping back. He could never hate Danny, but he was beginning to get very annoyed with him.

"Don, we've been friends for years," Danny said quietly. "Best friends, even. If that means anything to you at all … Believe me, I hate to ask this of you. I really, really do."

"Ask _what_ of me?"

Danny swallowed, but met Don's eyes steadily. "Please, step off of Mac."

"Step off?" Flack echoed. He laughed, shaking his head. "Step off your guy, is that it?"

"Please, Don, it's not funny."

"No, it's not," Flack agreed, sobering. He blew out a sigh, studying Danny. Before he could think on it too much, he found himself saying, "All right, Danny. Nothing's going to happen between me and Mac. Satisfied?"

"Don, I'm sorry. I know I don't have a right to ask you this."

"No, it's fine," Don said, struggling to hide his disappointment. "If you feel like that about Mac, you should have another chance with him. I, ah, I know how it feels … to love someone like that."

Danny shut his eyes, hanging his head. Flack came over to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

"If you really love Mac, then you do have a right to protect that," Flack told him. "Listen, I care about Mac, but I care about you, too. I wouldn't put myself between you two."

"Thank you," Danny said earnestly. "I was going crazy, and when you said that you were with Mac four years ago, I thought all kinds of things. You're sure you're all right with this? You're gonna be okay, right?"

"I'll be fine."

Danny patted his shoulder, and then headed out, too embarrassed and ashamed to stay any longer. Flack sat down on an armchair, exhaling. He rubbed both hands over his face, his mind reeling from the unexpected confrontation.

"I can't think about this right now," sighed Flack. He got to his feet, jerking his coat on. "Not today."

Shutting his feelings behind a veneer of professional detachment, Flack left his apartment. He did have one last bitter thought, however: that it was a sad day indeed when working at Homicide became a refuge.

* * *

**8:02 AM, January 13, 2010**

**Medical Examiner's Office**

Mac had managed to "No comment" his way through a sea of reporters, but found no solace in the confines of the ME's office. The victim's parents were waiting for him. He greeted and shook hands with Carl and Martha Fraser. The trio headed down to where the remnants of the Frasers's son lay cold in their freezers. There were many horrors of working in crime, but Mac believed this to be the darkest one.

Sid also shook hands with the Frasers. Mac inquired if they were ready, as if anyone could ever be ready to see their loved one dead on a slab. The Frasers nodded their assent wordlessly. Sid lifted the cloth covering Alan Fraser's body. The recognition was immediate. Martha gasped and turned her face into her husband's shirt. Carl's face went white, and his motions of comfort to his wife were lifelessly automated.

Mac and Sid exchanged a familiar glance of sympathetic glumness. They had discussed these scenes plenty of times before. Sid had once said that no matter how sorry he felt for any victim when they were on his table, no matter how much of their life he saw in their bodies, they were still a deceased body. It was seeing the hole they left behind in the lives of their loves ones that truly brought them to life in the mind's eye.

Mac escorted the Frasers to the CSI offices. He gave them coffees and sat down with them. He observed them while they drank and calmed themselves as much as possible. Carl Fraser was the source of Alan's strong good looks. The former general practitioner was tall, handsome, and still relatively lean for a man his age. He wore the retirement outfit of the masses: dockers, loafers, and a light green polo shirt. He still bore a full head of hair, the gunmetal gray shade that black hair aged into. Martha was shorter, stockier, and had a pleasant heart-shaped face. Alan had looked like his father, but he had inherited her dark eyes, slightly turned up at the corners. Martha wore an old wool coat over a sun dress, having apparently thrown the coat on for the flight into New York from Florida without even changing outfits. Both were deeply suntanned, and wore nothing on their faces other than profound grief.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fraser, I want to offer you my condolences once more," Mac said. "I can't even imagine what you're going through. I have to ask you some questions now, but if you feel uncomfortable at any time, feel free to let me know."

"Thank you, Detective Taylor," Mr. Fraser said. He glanced at his wife questioningly, and she nodded. "We're ready to do whatever we can to help you, though. We … We just want to help you find who's done this."

"I understand, and thank you for your cooperation," Mac said. He opened his notepad, and motioned to Stella across the hall to join them. Once she was there, he began the interview. "Do you know of any enemies your son might have had?"

Carl and Martha looked pained. Martha shook her head, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue Mac had provided.

"He never mentioned anyone specifically here in New York," Carl replied. "As for his time in Florida, yes, our son had some trouble. However, I'm not aware of anyone that would have followed him here, or that would do a thing like this."

"Were you both aware of your son's lifestyle?"

Carl lifted his head, his eyes going hard. "What does that have to do with anything? Why would you ask us that?"

"I only need to know if there was anyone who had a specific reason to be prejudiced against your son," Mac said gently. "So, you were aware that Alan was a gay man?"

"Our son was a beautiful, kind man," Martha spoke up for the first time. She drew a deep breath and sat up straight. Her bottom lip quivered, but she managed to keep her eyes dry for the moment. "Detective Taylor, you want to know about his life, don't you?"

"I do, ma'am."

"Then, I'll tell you," Martha said. She squeezed her husband's hand tightly. "Alan was our only child, and we raised him with nothing but love. It became evident that he was homosexual early on, and he trusted us enough not to try and keep secrets. We never gave him any reason to be ashamed of who he was. All we ever wanted was to raise a happy, healthy child, and he was."

"Yes, he was," Carl agreed, smiling nostalgically. Then, his face clouded. "But when he got to junior high school, things changed. He became withdrawn, angry. He stopped discussing anything to do with relationships with us. All the shame and the hurt we tried to protect him from had been driven into him by those asshole kids- Excuse me," Carl added to Stella. "Those kids. They tortured him. It wasn't kids being cruel, it was pure evil, what they did to our boy."

"We tried to reach out to him, put him in psychological counseling, but he never fully recovered," Martha said softly. "They hurt him, in every way possible, all because of the way he loved. It was sick. Finally, we pulled him out of school. We thought that home schooling would help him get over the damage. In many ways, it did. He began to laugh and smile again. He never did talk about being gay again, though. He became very careful about his mannerisms and speech. It was difficult to see him put a mask over such a bright, beautiful personality, but it was the only way he could cope, I suppose."

"He always wanted justice," Carl said, pride in his voice. "No matter how unjust the world had been to him, he just wanted to help stop such things from happening to other kids, other people. That was why he joined the National Guard."

"Something happened when he was in it, though," Martha said, frowning. "He never told us what. He simply left once his first contract was up. The next thing we knew, he was training to be police."

"Could he have made an enemy in the Guard?" Mac asked. "One that might have followed him up here to New York?"

"It is possible," Carl said. "You know how the military is. Damned DADT policy, and all the crap that goes on. He never discussed it with us, though. Like we said, he became very secretive about his lifestyle, even with us."

"He never discussed his work, either," Martha said. "He always thought-" She broke off, drawing a deep, shaky breath. "He always tried to be so strong for us. They broke him in school, made him feel so weak, that he was grateful to have someone to be strong for. So, we let him. We just let him keep everything bottled up. Oh God. God, Carl, why didn't we reach out more to him? Why didn't we _do _something?"

Carl rubbed his wife's hand, struggling to remain stoic. He moved his chair closer to hers, putting an arm around her and pulling her against his chest. Mac gave them a moment.

"Was he happy, at least?" Martha asked, sniffling, wiping her eyes with a fresh tissue provided by Stella. "Did he live freely up here? Did he have someone?"

"He had someone, but he was closeted," Mac said. "He kept his personal life separate from his professional one."

"Then why are you asking about his lifestyle?" Carl asked. "It couldn't have been a hate crime, could it?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we haven't ruled out any possibilities yet," Mac said. "Your son did have a partner that he seemed to be happy with."

"And you're thinking that someone might have found them out?"

"As I said, we cannot rule anything out at this stage," Mac said. "Have you been in communication with your son since his move to New York?"

"Yes, he called me every week at least once," Martha said. "He never missed a week, not once. He didn't discuss his work or his life, but we talked. He loved to watch TV whenever he had the chance. We would watch the same shows, and we always talked about them, sometimes for hours. He loved police dramas. You would think he had enough of that, given his work, but Alan loved to see the system at work. Probably to remind himself that it can work, given the fact that it failed him so miserably when he was in school."

"He always thought things could get better," Carl said. "Tell me, Detective Taylor, do you believe that? After seeing this, can you honestly tell me anything ever gets any better?"

"I believe that finding the monster that took your son from you will make at least a small part of the world better," Mac said. "Before he hurts anyone else."

"I'll give you that," Carl said wearily. "I will give you that point, sir."

"Why don't I let you two take a break?" Mac offered. He stood. "If either of you think of anything else, even something trivial, anything at all, you call me."

He handed them his card, and shook their hands again.

"Thank you very much for your time, sir, ma'am."

"Thank you, Detective," Martha said.

"Yes, and if you don't mind, find this guy?" Carl said. "Okay?"

"We will do our best, Mr. Fraser."

They left. Stella and Mac took their seats again.

"Terrible," Stella said quietly. "I know every case is tragic, Mac, but this one is just awful."

"It is, Stel," Mac agreed. "It certainly is. And I have the joyful task of spinning it into something hopeful for the press. We have no leads, no way of flushing this guy out, and I have to stand up there in an hour and pretend that we do."

Mac opened several folders, going over the evidence reports. He began to write some notes, preparing what he would say to the press. Stella decided to try and take his mind off of the case as much as possible.

"Did you see Danny this morning?"

"Danny?" Mac asked as he jotted down his notes. "No, why? Was he looking for me?"

"He was," Stella said. "He even went into your apartment to get you, but you weren't there."

Mac paused, looking up at her. "Danny went _into_ my apartment?"

"He said that you never asked him for your spare key back."

"I never did," Mac said. He resumed writing, though his brow remained furrowed. "I'm glad he reminded me."

"He was worried that you were spending the night with Flack," Stella said. She cocked her head, watching Mac's face. "He mentioned that you had had an incident with Flack four years ago?"

Mac studiously kept his gaze on his notes. "Danny told you that?"

"Yeah, he did," Stella said. "He told me all about how you had him set Flack up to get a spanking."

Mac's ears colored, but he said nothing. Stella had to admit that he had a poker face that could bankrupt Vegas.

"Is that something you do as a hobby, Mac?" Stella teased. "Or was Flack the only unlucky recipient of that kind of off-the-record penalty?"

"Four years ago-" Mac set his pen down and met her eyes. "-was a mistake, Stella."

"Was it?"

"Yes, I overstepped," Mac admitted. "There must have been some sexual tension between Don and I that I hadn't realized until it was too late. My intention was to rattle him, but it ended up being … complicated."

"Did you have sex with him?"

"Yes."

"So, Danny had reason to worry."

"Danny was worried about Flack and I?" Mac asked. "Is he jealous?"

"Rabidly jealous," Stella confirmed. "I have to say, I'm surprised. I never pictured you and Flack together."

"And why not?"

"He's taller than you?"

Mac chuckled. "You have pretty specific aesthetic taste, Stella. As for Flack and I, he's game, and I do need to move on from Danny already. He has, hasn't he?"

"No, he hasn't," Stella said. "Mac, you should have seen him. He was miserable. He even admitted that he doesn't love Lindsay, and he promised me that he would let her go. He's desperate to get you back."

"And whose fault is that, Stella?" Mac said accusingly. "You asked me to intervene between Danny and Lindsay. I did, and he took it as a sign that I was jealous."

"You _were_ jealous, Mac!"

"It was painful, but I would have gotten through it," Mac said. "Instead, I stepped in, and it gave Danny the opportunity he's been waiting for for years! And now what? He's going to give up moving on with Lindsay, and I'm expected to just forget about Don?"

"You don't love Don, Mac."

"That isn't fair, Stella," Mac said angrily. "That is unfair. I'm sorry that you haven't been able to let anyone else into your life, I really am, but it does not give you the right to play matchmaker with mine."

Stella's mouth opened slightly. Mac regretted the words instantly, but he choked down the apology that rose to his lips. He returned to writing his notes for the press statement.

Stella got to her feet, rubbing her forehead with a finger. She licked her lips, looked down at Mac, but could not bring herself to respond. She turned and stormed out of his office, her heels tapping down the hall until she was gone.

* * *

Flack grabbed a second cup of coffee on his way to the precinct. By the time he arrived, his nerves were frayed, and his mood was darker than the black coffee he picked up from the station's coffee machine. He threw himself into his chair, drinking down the murky stuff without reserve. What he really wanted was an decaffeinated and over-proof drink.

Flack was restless, unable to focus. It was difficult to believe that he had actually been happy that morning. He rolled a mouthful of coffee around in his mouth, trying to numb it of the sensation of kissing Mac. That was over, and he didn't even have anyone to blame for its end. He tried, but he could not begrudge Danny. If anyone had tried to take Jess from him, he would have fought them tooth and nail. In fact, he had made one of those men pay, made him pay dearly.

Flack shut his eyes, bowing his head. He rubbed each temple with one of his hands, trying to stave off the headache. His fingers trembled slightly, doubtless from all the caffeine.

"Hey, Flack!"

Don forced his face into neutrality, and lifted his head. "Yeah?"

"You working the Fraser case?" one of the other detectives asked. "Hell of a thing, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Can you believe it, though? They're saying he was a fag, is it true?"

Flack's chest tightened, but he retained his calm. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the detective. He was Tim Gorecki from Vice, a loudmouth that Flack always suspected of being more than partially dirty.

"You know I can't comment on that, Gorecki," Flack said carefully. He made a decision in how he wanted to play things, on a hunch, and added, "If it is true, it's something."

"It's sick is what it is," Gorecki said vehemently. "I know a lot of the guys from the 44th Precinct, and I've been talkin' to them all morning. They had no freaking clue the guy was gay. He even dated some girls, can you believe that? Used 'em for his cover."

"Incredible."

"The nerve of the guy, actin' like he was just a normal cop," Gorecki said. "We may be in the age of en-fuckin-lightenment and in the city of tolerance, but come on. I still don't think people like that should be let in. Do you?"

"Hey, right now, I can't comment officially," Flack said. He forced himself to crack a grin. "Unofficially, though? Yeah, I get where you're coming from, man. I feel you."

"Knew you were one of the sensible ones," Gorecki said, giving Flack's shoulder a punch. It was intended to be playful, but it made Flack's skin crawl. "You ask me, this killer did the 44th a favor, taking that freak Fraser out."

The comment nearly caused Flack to punch Gorecki right in his pudgy face, but he merely grinned more widely. Gorecki laughed, wrongfully assuming the smile was one of amusement.

"Hey, if you're serious, you should get together with D3-ATS."

Flack's instincts perked up. "What's D3-ATS?"

"You haven't heard? It's a new movement that stands against homosexuals in federal employ," Gorecki explained. "It's named after DADT, but it's more extreme: 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Serve', hence D3-ATS. It's for regular guys like us that are sick of every fairy princess and bull dyke in town tryin' to take over the federal forces."

Flack filed this information away, his mind working. "That right? And these guys do what? Sit around bitching and moaning?"

"We meet, and yeah, we talk," Gorecki said. "But there are protests. There's some other activities to discourage people like Fraser. You know."

"Right, right." Flack tapped his pen on his desk thoughtfully. "D3-ATS, huh?"

"Yeah. Here." Gorecki took his pen and scribbled something onto a notepad. "This is the website forum we use to communicate and set up meetings and stuff. It's a small group in New York, compared to the ones in the South and stuff, but there are still a bit of people involved. It's growing, it's a process. Just hard to get new members with everyone in this damn town scared of speaking their mind, lest they be labeled a conservative. Christ, can't democrats set limits, too? We have standards, some of us, still."

Flack was nodding, staring at the web address. "I'll be sure to check it out."

"You do that. See ya around, Flack."

Once Gorecki was out of the office, Flack allowed himself the scowl he had been suppressing. A string of creative profanities describing Gorecki's anatomy, mentality, and other failings ran through his mind. The annoyance had paid off, however. This D3-ATS information might just be a lead.

Flack did not want to use his own computer to look at the website, or to be seen logging onto such an odious site. He tore the page from the notepad and pocketed it. Then, he grabbed his coat, and left the precinct.

Flack drove until he found an internet cafe. He paid to use one of the computers, and logged onto the D3-ATS homepage. He was not very fond of the internet to begin with, and reading through this site exacerbated his negative opinion of it. It was bad enough that scumbags like these people got together physically to unite and ignite the flames of hatred, it was even worse that they could accomplish the same thing anonymously by tapping a few lines into a forum.

"You fucking cowards," Flack murmured to himself. He wondered how many of these people worked in precincts around the state, pretending to be human beings while hiding these inhuman thoughts. He thought of Gorecki, a man he had always thought of as simply being a relatively harmless jackass, and wondered if anyone ever really knew anyone in this world.

The meetings were open to any interested parties. Flack figured the web address only passed from 'regular guy' to 'regular guy', the way Gorecki had given it to him, thus leaving the meetings open but still obscure. He scribbled down the date and time of the next meeting. Whether D3-ATS was involved with Fraser's murder or not, he intended to get these bastards for something.


	7. Chapter 7

**07**

**12:30 PM, January 13, 2010**

**CSI Building**

Mac managed to avoid Danny and Stella until lunch. He went down the street to get a sandwich at McCullen's, and Danny followed him. He sat at a table alone, but before he knew it, Danny had joined him.

"Did Stella talk to you, Mac?"

"Yes, she did," Mac said slowly. "She told me how you felt about Flack. She told me how desperate you've been to get me back. She even vouched for me to give you a chance. And I insulted her in a way that I never thought I was capable of. Because of _you_."

Danny winced beneath Mac's cold green gaze. He bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. Mac set down his sandwich, having lost his appetite.

"So what do you want, Danny?" Mac asked. "Huh? What else can you possibly want from me?"

"Forgive me."

"Listen, Danny, I don't care that you've been practically stalking me," Mac said. "You can even keep the damn spare key. Just don't put anyone in the middle of our business, especially not Stella. She doesn't deserve it."

"No, no, not for this morning," Danny said impatiently. "I mean for cheating on you with Ruben's mom."

Mac's face twitched. He shook his head, staring down at his hands. They were clasped together over the table, the knuckles white.

"Danny, I don't even know why you did it," Mac finally said. The anger had gone from his eyes, replaced by pain. "I've gone over everything that happened a million times, and I just can't figure out why you didn't come to me. I tried to pull you back from that boy's death, you know that I did. Why did you turn to her instead of me? Why couldn't you grieve with me?"

"I didn't want to grieve," Danny said. "I've been turning this around in my head all day. I hadn't thought about it before now, I had pushed it out of my mind. But what it was was that I was sick of grieving. I didn't want to break down and cry on your should _again_. I wanted to be stronger than that for once, just for once. And she needed someone to be strong for her. She needed me, in a way you never could- At least, I thought you never could need me that much."

"You thought wrong."

"Stella told me that," Danny said. "She said that you're strong and you survive, but you still need as much as anyone else. She said you need me because … I'm your heart."

"Yes, Stella has a way of cutting to the chase and still being poetic," Mac said affectionately.

"Yeah, but was she right?" Danny asked. "Or have you moved on? I mean, Flack told me nothing happened last night, but he also told me about four years ago."

"When did you see Flack?"

"Uh, this morning," Danny said. "When I went looking for you."

Mac went to the bar to return his barely touched sandwich. Danny followed on his heels.

"And what did you tell Flack?"

"I told him to stay away from you."

Mac whipped around from the bar. "What!"

Danny glanced around at the few patrons and bartender, mortified. Mac took the hint. He took Danny by the shoulder and brought him outside.

"What right do you have?" Mac asked. "What gives you the right to ask Don something like that?"

"I love you, Mac!" Danny said furiously. "That gives me the right!"

"You have someone, you've always had someone, Danny!" Mac snapped. "And while you've been moving on and moving forward, I've been stuck! I haven't even been able to think about finding someone since losing you. I haven't been able to trust, haven't been able to breathe! I finally make a connection, and you choose now, _now_, to try and pull me back to you? You step in the middle of my relationship and presume to end it?"

"Listen, I regret having to ask Don to stay away from you, I regret it like hell," Danny said. "But I had to ask it of him, Mac. I _had _to."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't let you fall in love with him!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don is a good guy, Mac," Danny said. "He might even … be a better man than me. He's never hurt you the way I have. I know you, Mac, and I know that Flack is the kind of guy you could fall in love with. How could I just stand by and let that happen?"

"Let me get this straight," Mac said. "You thought that if Don and I got together, I would fall in love with him?"

"You're telling me it couldn't happen?"

"I care a lot about Don, I do," Mac said. "He is a good man, and we could be close. I hope I don't regret telling you this, but … I could never love Don the way I love you. I'm not certain that I could love anyone as much as I love you."

Danny walked closer to him. "Mac-"

"Stop." Mac held a hand to Danny's chest, keeping him at arms' length. "What did Don say?"

"He agreed to back off," Danny said. "He said that he knew what it was like to be in love. He understood, Mac. He said he would step back and let me have a shot at reconciling with you. It was pretty noble."

"Poor Don," sighed Mac. "You really had no right, Danny."

"Selfish as it is, Mac, I don't regret it," Danny said stubbornly. "I can't. I would hate myself if I let you fall in love with someone else. Especially Flack."

"Especially Flack?"

Danny's mouth twitched into a small smile. "Yeah. I mean, come on, he's not even a CSI."

"Don't be a brat, Danny."

Nonetheless, Mac was also smiling. He could feel the weight of their years-long feud sloughing off his shoulders, and he had to admit that it was a relief. It was nice to be comfortable with Danny again, to laugh and talk with him without constantly pondering the anguish of the past. Mac was not ready to fully let his guards down yet, but for the first time in over two years, he saw it as a possibility.

"I have to talk to Flack," Mac said. "And you have to talk to Lindsay."

"Ohh yeah."

"Oh Christ, Danny, did you forget about her?"

Danny said nothing, which in fact said it all.

"I haven't decided anything yet, Danny," Mac said. "You understand that?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know."

Mac gave him a weary look. Whenever Danny answered a question in a rush that way, he was either lying, or not taking it very seriously. Mac gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, and then stepped back from him, clearing his throat.

"Now can we get back to work, please?"

"You don't want to grab lunch with me?"

"I ate all I'm going to eat today," Mac said. "I'll see you back at the lab, Danny."

"Catch you later, Mac!"

Mac bit his tongue as Danny beamed at him. With that boyish smile on his face, it was all he could do not to take him into his arms and kiss him until they ran out of breath. Danny turned, and Mac watched him stride down the street.

_Don, I'm sorry, _Mac thought. _But I still love him._

* * *

**2:30 PM, January 13, 2010**

**Apartment of Alan Fraser, Bronx, New York**

Stella and Danny had spent the past hour canvassing Fraser's building. They interviewed neighbors, went through the dumpsters, the alleys, and over the crime scene again. After having split up for the interviews, they met back at the crime scene for one more sweep.

"Get anything, Danny?"

"Some reports of a car parked outside the building, left running, around the TOD," Danny said. "Either dark blue or black, 'some kind of sedan' according to the neighbor, nothing unique or flashy unfortunately."

"So what are we thinking?" Stella murmured. She walked through the apartment, flipping through her notes. "Let's run through it."

"Right."

Danny and Stella came to the living room. Danny went around outside the apartment, speaking through the door, "So the killer shows up on Fraser's doorstep, knocks, and Fraser opens the door."

"How did he get in the building?" Stella called through the door.

"He came in with one of the neighbors when they opened the front door. Now."

Danny knocked on the door, and Stella opened it for him. Danny followed the boot print impressions along the path they led: over the threshold, into the living room, to the kitchen. There were traces of moisture from the boot prints on the kitchen linoleum. Danny motioned to the dinette set.

"So, they sat down here. To talk?"

"There was no sign that anything was eaten or drank, so it must have been," Stella said.

Danny followed the boot prints through the apartment, and stopped at an overturned table near the bedroom door.

"This is where the struggle began," he said. "Fraser might have been taken by surprise, maybe he had gone to get something. Or maybe he made a run for his gun, which he kept on his nightstand in the bedroom. Either way, the killer attacked him here."

They came into the bedroom, going through the chaos the struggle had left.

"We found Fraser's blood on the lamp that was here on the bureau," Stella said. "The killer must have knocked him dizzy or unconscious here. After that, he dragged him to the bed, where he restrained and gagged him. After that … "

Stella and Danny grimly recalled the scene of slaughter.

"And yet there was nothing, no trace of the killer," Stella said. "All he did, the time he took, the care … and not a single shred of him. There were trace fibers found of his clothing, but not a single fingerprint or hair, no DNA whatsoever."

"I'm really thinking that the killer ran through the place and cleaned up," Danny said. "Did he have the time?"

"The time between TOD and the first police units arriving was thirty minutes," Stella said. "He would have had to have been quick, thorough, and in a state of calm and focus. Incredible to think that after committing such a brutal, rage-filled attack, he managed to remember and collect anything incriminating. I mean, it happens, but not often."

"And when it does, it means we're dealing with a real nut," Danny said. "In my professional opinion."

Stella nodded in agreement. "What took that downstairs neighbor so long to call it in?"

"I spoke to her again today," Stella said. "The commotion died down quickly. She thought that Fraser had a girl over, or a small accident. She tried to go back to sleep, but she heard the door upstairs slam, when the killer left."

"Slam?" Danny asked in surprise. "This guy was careful to a fault. Cleaned up, washed off at the sink, took evidence with him. Then he slams the door loud enough for the whole building to hear?"

"You think he wanted attention brought to the crime scene?"

"Yeah, I do," Danny said. "Spectacle."

Stella rubbed her face tiredly. "All we have are … theories and supposition. Damn it! Why did this guy have to take the evidence? Couldn't he have dumped it in the alley or something? Or missed something?"

"Yeah, I know, when are we going to catch a break?" Danny said. "It's like-"

"Hold on."

Stella shone her flashlight between the bed slats. She climbed carefully over them, and aimed her camera at a spot. She took several photos, and then reached down to tag and retrieve something. Danny gave her a hand as she climbed back off. Danny had no gloves on, so he looked over her shoulder to view the new evidence.

"Another dog tag?"

"Yeah, but this one has no name or rank," Stella said, studying it. "It just says 'D3-ATS'."

"Can't think of anything that set of characters could be," Danny said. "Could be one of those personalized commercial jewelry pieces."

Stella bagged and tagged it. "It must stand for something important to our victim, or our killer," she said. "We'll run some searches back at the lab. Are we done here?"

"Not quite, I got one more thing to do," Danny said, nodding towards the bathroom.

"I don't think using a crime scene receptacle is standard procedure."

Danny gave her a look. "Very funny, Stel. It's the drains, I'm going to take trace from them. Maybe our killer didn't wash bleach down with the blood. If he washed his boots there, could be trace mixed in with the blood."

"Go for it," Stella smiled. "I'm going to look under the bed again. We might have missed some things when the mattress was on it. The bed is very low to the ground, we didn't have much access to it last night."

"You know, I talked to Mac at lunch today."

Stella lifted her head in Danny's direction. His back was to her, as he worked on the sink drain. She licked her lips, and made an effort to keep her voice even.

"What did he say?"

"He's sorry about what he said to you," Danny said. "He didn't tell me what it was, but he blamed me for it."

"For once, it wasn't your fault, Danny."

"Yeah, it was," Danny said. "I went to you, brought you into all of this. It wasn't fair of me. And I appreciate you supporting me, by the way."

"It wasn't just for you, Danny."

"Still, thanks."

Danny shot her a smile from the bathroom. Stella smiled back, a bit sadly.

"Anyway, I think Mac is finally ready to give us another chance," Danny went on. "And Don agreed to back off. We might just have a second shot."

"You won't mess it up this time?"

"I won't. I hope I haven't messed it up with you and Mac, though."

"We'll get over it," Stella said. "I'll give him a little hell, but we're best friends. Don't tell him yet, but I'll forgive him."

"Yeah, it always comes down to forgiveness, right?" Danny said. "People say things like love is hard, love is pain, marriage is work, and all that. But loving isn't the hard part. Forgiving someone you love is. I mean, we're only human, we're gonna screw up and hurt each other. Screwing up is easy, even. But forgiveness, now that's the crucible."

"Yeah, it is," Stella said. "But it still beats the alternative."

Danny appeared at the doorway to the bathroom. "The alternative?"

"Letting love go cold," Stella said. "Or worse, letting it turn to hate."

Danny looked around at the remnants of violence and hatred. He nodded in agreement, and returned to the bathroom. The two investigators continued their work, sifting through the pieces of tragedy one inch at a time.

Outside the CSI building, Mac Taylor was making a short statement to the press. Going on nothing but sheer will, he assured the city that justice would be found for Alan Fraser. He deflected the rumors by portraying Fraser as the man he had truly been, and not the subversive figure the rumor mill was trying to paint him as. He would be damned if Fraser was victimized any more than he had been at the end of his all too short life.

Detective Flack managed to spend his day working. When activity lulled, however, he stopped fighting with himself. He sat down in McCullen's to nurse a drink. If he had to keep losing, he was determined not to do so sober.

* * *

**Interlude: Cold Case Love**

On my roof  
Dark and I'm burning a rose  
I don't need proof  
I'm torn apart & you know  
What you did to me was a crime  
Cold Case Love  
And I let you reach me one more time  
But that's enough

Your love was breaking the law  
But I needed a witness  
So pick me up when it's over  
It don't make any difference  
Will it ever be solved  
Or am I taking the fall  
Truth was there all along  
Tell me how did we miss it

We opened up a cold case love  
And it got the best of us  
And now prints, pictures & white outlines  
Are all that's left at the scene of a crime  
Of a cold case love

– Rihanna


	8. Chapter 8

**08**

**11:08 PM, January 13, 2010**

**Home of Don Flack, Bronx, New York**

Don Flack was not drunk. He had spent hours slowly sipping liquor, then only beer, before finally giving up after a second beer. He was tired of feeling miserable, tired of feeling sick, tired of being tired. He left McCullen's early, and headed home to get some sleep.

Flack was in bed at eight, but he spent the next hour tossing and turning. He hated an empty apartment. First Jess had been absent from his bed, then his dog gone from her place by the bedroom door, and just when he thought Mac would take a place beside him, he was forced to give that idea up. It was divine justice for leaving his sister alone to waste away in mental agony, and he knew it. For the next few hours, he tried to accept his fate. He turned on the TV, turned it off, tried to read a magazine, went over his case notes, lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling. Still, the ghosts of those gone from his home and his life mockingly cascaded before his exhausted eyes.

When he could no longer stand it, Flack got dressed and left his apartment. He stalked the snowy streets aimlessly. He lost track of time and location completely, lost in his thoughts. He walked and walked, watching the passersby, staring into the gently whirling snowflakes. It did not matter where he escaped to tonight, so long as he outran those damned ghosts.

_I should move, _Don thought. Though he had not drank enough to get drunk, his mind was whirling as crazily as the falling snowflakes. His vision kept blurring. He attributed the fuzziness to exhaustion, though he had long since given up on sleeping. _I think I'll check out the real estate market tomorrow. I can't stay there alone. Anywhere else, with anyone else, but not there, and not alone. I'll go crazy if I stay there. I'll-_

_(Kill myself)_

_-just go nuts._

As he passed by the buildings, Flack occasionally glanced up at them. He was not sure if he was looking for another bar, or simply a distraction. He finally found the latter when he looked up to find the Eden of Desires club staring down at him.

Flack stopped in mid-step, and blinked up at the place. Without thinking anything in particular, he went on inside. Edmund Ragno was at the reception desk talking with the male receptionist. He glanced at the door, and did a double-take when his eyes lit on Flack.

"Oh for the love of- Not you again!" Ragno exclaimed. "I told you everything I know! Please, get _out_ of here!"

"I think I'll grab that smoke break," the receptionist said, eying Flack. "A cheap suit walking in here can only mean one thing, and I'm not into handcuffs."

The man quickly fled the lobby, going out the front door. Ragno glared at Flack.

"What is it you want, _Detective_?" he asked. "Going to harass my clients next? Why not? Just go right ahead, put me out of business, what do I care?"

"Whoa, whoa, relax there, Ragno," Flack said. "I'm not here as a detective, all right? Do you _see _a badge anywhere?"

Ragno eyed him suspiciously. "Then what _are _you here for?"

Before he had thought of what he was saying, Flack said, "I'm here as a customer."

Ragno's jaw dropped. Flack frowned, feeling almost as shocked as the little man. Ragno moved behind the counter, composing his features. He was still looking at Flack with a measure of skepticism.

"Right," he said slowly. "Customer. And exactly what do you want to purchase _here_?"

Flack shrugged, approaching the counter. "I, uh, I don't know. I thought maybe I could set up an appointment or … or something?"

"I … Are you serious?" Ragno blurted out. "This isn't a sting operation or something?"

"That's the FBI, not NYPD," Flack said. "And no, it's not a setup. See?" He opened his jacket. "No badge, no gun. I told you, I'm not on the clock."

"And you want an appointment?"

"Well, yeah, I think I do."

"You think," Ragno echoed dryly. "And what sort of scene are you 'thinking' of setting up, hm?"

"What?"

"What do you want to do?" Ragno was flipped through a catalog-like book on the reception counter. "We don't offer sex, as you know, _Detective_. This is a fetish club, predominantly disciplinary in nature. So what will it be? Giving, receiving? Both?"

"Uh … I … "

Ragno blinked at him calmly. He expected Flack to chicken out at any moment now. He may have gotten his wish, if the elevators had not chimed just then. He glanced over, and while his gaze was off of Flack, Flack murmured something.

"Come again?"

"Receiving."

Ragno's eyebrows shot up. He flipped through the book, murmuring, "Wow. You think you know a guy. Well, I have many lovely dominatrix vixens working here at the moment. Here, do you see any you like?"

"Actually, I was thinking more of a … a, uh …. a guy?"

Ragno sucked in a breath, stifling further comment. His lips pressed together, and he frowned down at the catalog again. "Well, our male doms tend to play a bit rough. Are you absolutely certain you want to do this? After all, this isn't really a place for first times or … or whatever you're trying to do. We're highly specialized, and … and a bit expensive."

The man that had gotten off the elevator had been on his way out, but he turned around at the door. He was very tall, a few inches taller than Flack, and trim. He was dressed in a nice suit, with a nicer black cashmere coat over it. His skin was olive, his hair deep black, and he had sharp green eyes, large without being too prominent.

"The man knows what he wants," he called over to Ragno. "You should let him have it."

The man came over to them. He looked Flack up and down, his eyes lingering on his face. With a faintly amused smile, he looked down a considerable distance to meet Ragno's eyes.

"I was heading home, but I could squeeze him in tonight," he offered. He smirked at Flack. "You know I like the cute ones."

Flack felt his face coloring, uncomfortable from the man's open flirtation. He coughed, looking away from the man. A single thought kept running through his mind: _What am I doing? What am I doing? What in God's name am I doing?_

"Victor, I don't think it's a good idea," Ragno was saying desperately. "You can just go home, this … doesn't concern you. Flack and I will settle on something. He's not entirely sure he even wants an appointment, are you, Flack?"

"He sounded pretty sure to me," Victor said. He had a natural, easy confidence and sense of command. "Come on, Ragno, I could use the extra money, and I've got the time tonight."

Ragno rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Victor, you know how you are, you-"

"All right."

Ragno and Victor looked curiously at Flack. Flack felt very warm, his pulse was racing, and the feeling of life was intoxicating after a night spent contemplating death. He felt reckless, refreshingly out of character.

"I'm game," Flack said firmly. He glanced up at Victor, pondering the man. "If you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Victor said smoothly. He gave Ragno a pointed look. "You heard the man."

Ragno rolled his eyes skyward. He expected Flack to balk at the price of the appointment, but when he didn't, Ragno gave him a discount. Not that he thought saving the man a few dollars would sway him from raiding the place if he did not like the experience, but he felt the need to do _something_ to endear himself to the temperamental detective.

"He's all yours," Ragno told Victor glumly. "Try to-" He stopped himself. "Give him a good time, all right?"

"Don't I always?"

Victor put a hand on Flack's upper back, steering him to the elevators. Flack followed along, crackling with confusion, excitement, and a slight reserve of fear. It was reminiscent of four years ago, and the thought pleased him as much as it worried him.

Even Victor's eyes, they were almost the same shade of green as Mac's were. When they were in the elevator together, Flack found himself staring at him. Victor stood very close, and was still giving him that up and down, appraising look. Now that they were so near, Flack caught a whiff of his cologne. It was unusual, and clearly expensive. The subtly dark blend of notes melded well with Victor's natural scent.

Victor suddenly reached out a hand. Flack instinctively shot back, and Victor laughed. "Relax," he said, touching Don's face. He tipped his face up, then to one side and the other. His thumb rubbed across Flack's bottom lip. "You are pretty cute," he remarked. He released Flack and leaned back against the elevator wall, arms crossed. "So why was Ragno denying you service, anyway?"

"He's just worried that I won't have a good time, and shut the place down for revenge," Flack chuckled. He added, "Shut it down _again_, that is."

"Again?"

"I'm NYPD," Flack explained. "I busted this place when it first opened up. I'm not even in Vice anymore, though."

"Ah, that explains it," Victor said. "So, NYPD … one of the good boys. What have you done to deserve a little discipline, good boy?"

Flack moved away from him, his face flaming now. "I, uh … I'm Catholic, take your pick of sins I feel guilty for."

Victor laughed. "I do love a Catholic. What's your name, good boy?"

"Donald Flack, Jr., but everyone just calls me 'Don'. Or 'Flack'."

"Well, I'm Victor Brant." He reached down to take Don's hand and gave it a solid shake. "It's good to meet you."

Flack laughed, shaking his head. The night had taken on a surreal tone. He wondered if he was at home dreaming, after all. The elevator chimed, and they got out into a stark white hallway. Some of the artwork lining the hall deepened Flack's blush. Victor kept a hand on his back, leading him along.

"You've been working here long?" Flack asked as Victor unlocked one of the doors. "At the club?"

"Not very long, and I'm not a staff entertainer," Victor said. "I freelance here sometimes. It's a hobby that just happens to be lucrative."

They came into a room, and Victor turned the lights on. It looked like a small television set, decorated with impeccable attention to detail. It was made to resemble a miniature police station, with an interrogation table and a small jail cell. However, the furnishings were more comfortable than the real deal, right down to the extra wide and cushioned jail cell cot.

"Very funny," Flack commented.

"I thought you would appreciate it," smirked Victor. He shut the door behind them, but did not lock it. "So, Don Junior-"

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, I will call you whatever I want," Victor said, removing his coat. "My clients never manage to succeed in ruling from the bottom."

"You only, um … ?"

"I'm always a dominant," Victor said. "I don't switch, if that was what you were wondering. You?"

"I don't know," Flack admitted. "I'm not exactly into the … 'scene'."

"Newbie, huh?" Victor untied his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves, eying Flack narrowly. "I'm only going to ask you these two things once, so pay attention."

Flack was beginning to bristle at Victor's high-handed tone, but he kept quiet. He had not paid for a battle of wills, after all.

"First, are you certain that you want to do this?"

Flack swallowed, glancing around the playroom. Where a weapons' rack would be, there was a glass case. A number of severe implements were hung up inside. He thought of Alan Fraser, tied up, helpless, used and murdered. Then he remembered his empty apartment, and Mac.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"All right," Victor said. He stepped close to Flack, running a hand down his arm. "Secondly, what is your safe word?"

"I guess … I don't know." Flack shrugged. "Enough?"

"An easy word to let spill out," Victor said. "Usually with common words, we use a system of repetition. Say, repeated three times straight?"

"Okay."

"Relax, Don," Victor told him. He slipped Flack's coat off and hung it on a coat rack. He reached for Don's suit jacket, but Don moved back.

"I got it."

"You really are green," laughed Victor. "Come here. Familiarity helps ease the tension."

Victor took him by the shoulders and pulled him further into the room. He sat him down on the interrogation table, and proceeded to unbutton his jacket. Flack huffed a sigh, giving Victor a sullen look. Victor ignored him. Once he had his jacket off, he removed his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I thought this place didn't sell sex."

"Just a few buttons," Victor said. "Things can get a bit warm in here. Though I guess you wouldn't know that, would you?"

Flack said nothing, though he remembered exactly how warm these 'things' could get. Victor's hand brushed his neck as he undid the first button on his shirt. He realized that Victor was trying very hard to reign in his attraction to him. The thought was both flattering and unnerving.

"Is there any implement you prefer?" Victor asked, standing up quickly and keeping some space between himself and Flack. He cleared his throat. "Positioning? Any requests? Roleplay?"

"No. Just don't tie me up, okay?"

Something flickered in Victor's eyes. He gave Flack a searching look. Flack did likewise, but he could not read the emotion in Victor's gaze.

"No bondage, all right," Victor finally said. He shook himself out of whatever thoughts he had been entertaining. "So what _do_ you want?"

"I really gotta say it?"

Victor leaned his face down to Flack's, his breath grazing his face. Flack's own breath hitched. He thought they would kiss, and was not entirely adverse to the idea. Victor's arms rested on either side of Flack on the table, caging him there.

"I wouldn't want to do anything to offend you, would I, Detective?" Victor asked. His eyes glittered with amusement. "Besides, I like to hear a man ask for it."

"Fine," Flack said. His face was burning, but he met Victor with an overly nonchalant expression. "I want you to … punish me."

"Oh really? How? With what implement? In what position?" Victor slid an arm around Flack's waist, pulling him closer. "You're a little tall for over the knee, but I could manage."

"I … uh … Surprise me?"

"Dealer's choice. I can live with that."

Victor moved back from Flack, releasing him. Before Don had recovered from the intimacy, Victor had seized him again. He pulled him down from the table, turned him towards it, and then pushed him down over it. He moved so swiftly that Don struggled without thinking.

"Do you like a fight, or do you think you're still on duty?" Victor asked. His grip on Flack's shoulders tightened, and he held him down on the table until he stopped moving. "There. That's better."

Flack squeezed his eyes shut. He folded his arms beneath his chin on the metal table. He felt a hand ruffle his hair, as Victor gently told him to relax.

"I have been … you know … before."

Victor was looking over the implements in their case. "Have you?"

"It wasn't consensual," Flack said. "We weren't even together. Someone I work with."

"Another _cop_?"

"Yeah, can you believe it?"

"I guess I can believe anything in this city," Victor said. "That is especially weird, though. But you enjoyed it?"

"I wouldn't say 'enjoyed' exactly."

Victor returned to Flack. He put his hand under his chin and tipped his face up to look at him. "How did it make you feel?"

"Like a child," Flack said. Victor stroked the side of his face with unexpected tenderness. "I remembered all kinds of things. My dad, mostly. I was angry at first, but then I was embarrassed, ashamed. I felt guilty. Also kind of excited. It hurt and I cried, but it was kind of … erotic, I guess. It's hard to describe."

"Release," Victor said. He leaned down on the table, bringing their faces level. "You felt release, didn't you? From responsibility, from adulthood, from ego. It's a small destruction, but not a totally unpleasant one for some people. Perhaps it was even a relief for you."

"Yeah, it was."

"When did this happen?"

"Four years ago."

"I see." Victor considered. He started to say something else, but stopped himself. He patted Flack's head, then pushed it back down onto his arms. "We'll see if we can recapture some of that now. Not to brag, but I'm pretty confident that I can make you forget your first time. At least for a little while."

Victor circled behind Flack, observing his prone figure. He thought for a moment, then ordered, "Stand up."

"What?"

Victor gave his bottom a slap. "You heard me."

Flack stood, giving him a miffed look. He noticed that Victor had a leather paddle hanging from a loop around his wrist. He crossed his arms, but did not comment.

"You're still nervous," Victor said. "I think a little more intimacy would be good for you. Come on."

Victor guided Flack to the jail cell corner of the set. He sat down on the edge of the cot. He pointed the paddle at Flack's fly.

"Take them off."

"But-"

Victor tapped the paddle against his palm. "You're not used to bowing to authority, are you? What do you rank at the NYPD, Donald?"

"Homicide Investigator," Don said. "Detective Specialist, First Grade."

"Well, First Grade, if you don't want to listen to me, this won't work."

"It's habit."

"Break the habit. **Now**."

Don's mouth twitched. Victor narrowed his eyes, his grip on the paddle's handle tightening.

"You're enjoying this," he observed. He stood, smiling. "You like fighting for control. You're trying to see if I'm worth respecting. You want me to be worthy of taking you over."

Victor tapped the paddle against Flack's face very lightly. Flack did not flinch. It was vastly different from his incident with Mac. By the time Mac had gotten to him, he had already been helpless. He knew Mac, respected him, and their argument had been cut short by the spanking. Here with this oddly alluring stranger, it felt like a game. They might as well have been the only two men in the world, locked in this contest of wills. Beneath the competition, Flack could feel their mutual attraction boiling, threatening to spill over.

"Oh, if you weren't a customer, the things I would do to you," Victor murmured. He ran the leather paddle down Flack's face, to his neck, and flicked his shirt open with it. "But you did pay. You do want this. In a way, that puts you more at my mercy than anything. You won't walk out of here, and you're not going to win this little game you've started. So what will you do, Don?"

Don did not look very impressed. Victor pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. He brought his mouth to Don's ear, lips grazing his temple.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," Victor whispered into his ear. His hands wandered down Flack's shirt, to his belt buckle. "You are going to go over my knees, and you are going to get the daylights spanked out of your haughty ass. And you know what? You are going to thank me for it when we're done."

Flack gave a loud, though nervous, laugh. "Oh yeah? You think so?"

Victor drew his face back. He moved his lips so close to Flack's that they brushed together. Flack's breathing was heavy, and his eyes swept shut. He could feel Victor's mouth moving against his own when he spoke again.

"I know it."

Flack leaned forward, but Victor was out of reach, and he stumbled. He had not even noticed that Victor had removed his belt and unzipped his fly. His pants slipped from his waist and pooled around his ankles. Before he could do anything about it, his wrist was seized. Another hand pressed against the small of his back. He was pushed and pulled forward. At the last, Victor gave him a violent yank, and he fell across his lap.

"Very smooth," Flack said. He laughed. "That was completely unfair. Maybe I will bust you for solicitation after all."

"You're not in Vice anymore, remember?"

"Think I couldn't bust you, anyway?"

"I think that you should stop laughing before you really regret it."

Victor's hand slid under the waistband of Flack's boxers, and he eased them down. He rearranged Flack more comfortably over his knees, raising one to lift his buttocks a little.

"Nice."

Flack laughed, recalling Danny's comment from four years ago. "I've actually heard that before."

"I meant that it's a nice target," Victor clarified. He reached a hand back and slapped it down hard upon the target in question. "See what I mean?"

Flack was still chuckling.

"Would you stop laughing?" Victor burst out in genuine annoyance. He spanked him harder, his broad, flat palm leaving bright red handprints on Flack's skin. "I have to say, no one has ever laughed at me before."

"I'm laughing with you, not at- Aow!"

Victor switched to the leather paddle abruptly. He smirked in satisfaction when the strike caused Don to jump and flinch. He took a firmer grip on the paddle's handle, and swung it again. By the time the second crack stopped resonating, Flack's laughter had ceased altogether.

"So it's pain that gets your attention," Victor said. "Good to know. Also good for a man like me."

Flack licked his lips, wincing as he was struck again. There was no anger this time. He searched for it, but found none. The guilt and shame were there, warring with physical arousal and adrenaline. Above all these feelings was a new one, as well: gratification.

"You're a newbie, so I had planned to go easy on you," Victor said. "But you're a tough one, aren't you, Don? You're used to being in charge, used to being the big man on the scene?"

"Well, yeah. I am."

"Honestly, I don't know what the NYPD was thinking," Victor said. "Giving an arrogant brat like you so much power?"

"Please. I know a line when I hear one," Flack said. "_That's_ why I earned my power."

Victor could not help a rueful laugh. "I'll give you that. So why _do _you need to be punished? What did a good boy cop like you do to deserve this?"

Flack did not reply.

"Four years, and even though you were turned on by being disciplined, you never sought it out again," Victor said. "So what happened to drive you to paying me to punish you? What could cause a cop to feel that guilty?"

Flack hung his head, no longer amused in the slightest. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to talk about it," Victor said. "Just think about it. Think about it, and we'll see how pleased with yourself you can stay."

Victor struck him harder and at a quicker pace. Flack made a small sound of discomfort, his legs kicking back instinctively. One hand gripped Victor's ankle. The current of eroticism had not vanished, but it was buried beneath a heavy veil of guilt.

"Not so smug now, are you?" Victor asked after some minutes. "There you go. Let go of all those layers you've been hiding behind this entire time. You may not be used to it, but you're not in control here. You've earned a taste of humility, and you're going to get it."

Flack tried to get up, but Victor held him down with his free hand.

"I think that's enough."

"You haven't repeated it three times," Victor said. "And you won't. Not yet. Whatever you've done, I doubt this is anywhere near enough. You've been hiding it from me, but I saw it when you were arguing with Ragno. Why do you think I turned back around on my way out?"

Flack sniffed, blinking back tears. He swiped his wrist across his eyes.

"I saw your desperation," Victor told him. "How much you needed this. You looked lost. I couldn't leave you stranded there, could I?"

"Just doing your public-" Flack hissed in pain, the paddle snapping fire into his flesh. "-duty, is that it?"

"Or perhaps getting a little justice for whoever you've wronged?"

Flack thought of his sister, and of Jess. He thought of the man he had looked down upon and shot in cold blood. "No," he whispered. "You could beat me raw and it would never be justice enough."

Victor paused. He rested a hand on Flack's buttocks, his fingers rubbing over the raised welts. His skin was hot, and had turned a deep shade of red. Victor smiled and squeezed Don, causing him to wince.

"You killed someone, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

Victor's hand tightened, his fingernails making small half-moon indents in Flack's flesh.

"My sister. Oh God."

Victor's hand relaxed. Flack crumbled into sobs. Victor lifted him off of his lap, sat him beside him on the cot. Flack was wiping away tears furiously, muttering, "Not again. I can't be crying again. Not again. Hell is wrong with me?"

Victor held him by the shoulders. "Tell me." He caressed the side of Flack's tear-stained face. "I don't usually do this kind of thing, but … you can tell me."

Flack explained his abandonment of his troubled sister. He told Victor about losing Jess, his dog, and about Mac Taylor. He told the man everything, except for his darkest secret. Fragile as he was lately, he was still a cop, and he knew better than to confess murder to strangers.

"I finally thought that I wouldn't have to go to sleep alone anymore," Flack concluded. "I didn't plan it, but I thought that I had finally found something to live for again. I never let myself think about it before, but … I could have loved him. I really could have."

"I think, in a way, you already do."

"Yeah, maybe," Flack said. He rubbed his brow. "I'm sorry. I didn't pay to come here and treat you like my priest or therapist."

"It happens," Victor said. "Guilt is a powerful emotion, and it can overwhelm you when it's brought to the surface. Besides, you're the one paying for my time."

"Jeez, it's by the hour," Flack said. He managed a small smile. "I'm gonna be bankrupt if I don't shut up before the one hour is up."

"Maybe not." Victor caressed Flack's face, thinking. "This is something that I _never _do, but do you want to come home with me?"

"You'd do that for me?"

Victor thumbed a trail of tears from Flack's face. "Like I said, I like the cute ones."

Flack hesitated, but not for long. His streak of recklessness had been rekindled by the reminder of his loneliness. He knew that going home alone in this state would be dangerous.

"Yeah. Yeah, all right."

* * *

In Victor's car, Flack fell into a doze in the passenger seat. When they parked outside Victor's building, the man waited before waking him up. He leaned back in the driver's seat, watching Don sleep for a time.

It struck Victor Brant that there were many ways for human beings to connect. Their connection at the Eden of Desires Club had been one of violence, partly playful and partly painful. In many ways, sex was similar. However, no connection was so intimate as moments like these, Victor thought. Sleep disarmed people utterly. Even death did not hold so much power over humans, as when it finally came, there were no more defenses to be had. To fall asleep so close to another person was to put oneself entirely in their hands. It was the ultimate submission.

Victor reached out, hesitated, and then let his hand brush Flack's face. He studied him for a moment longer, before shaking him lightly. Flack's snoring broke off, and he blearily came back to consciousness.

"Victor."

"Yeah, it's me," Victor said. He felt a private thrill of pleasure that Flack had remembered his name. "Come on. We're here."

"Was I asleep?" Flack asked, yawning widely. "Christ, what time is it?"

"Late," Victor said simply. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door. He went around to the passenger door and opened it. Flack climbed out unsteadily. Victor took the opportunity to slide an arm around him. "I got you."

Flack leaned heavily on him, losing his fight against sleep. All the caffeine he had consumed that morning had worn away, leaving him crashed into sudden exhaustion. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

"It's been a long time since I've had anyone-" Victor broke off, squeezing Flack tighter. "I don't often have the time to have any real relationships. There's work, there's my play at the club, and that's about all there is."

Flack was barely listening. Victor looked at him, half his face muzzled into Victor's shirt, and was grateful for the lack of attention. Victor was a man used to being in full control of himself and those around him. Part of maintaining that level of impregnability was keeping his most private self locked deep inside. It was akin to having an internal disease: allowing a tumor to grow and swell, its cells spreading and blackening all around it. Loneliness, anger, hatred, uncertainty- Victor kept them all beneath the surface, regardless of the damage they caused.

"My work doesn't allow me to be who I am," Victor continued, leading Flack into the building. Flack squeezed his eyes shut against the softly buzzing white fluorescent lights. "I wear so many masks in my life, and a different hat to go with each one. The good guy, the bad guy. But no matter who I am at any given moment, it seems I'm always alone."

Victor pressed the grimy elevator button. He scuffed his shoes impatiently on the cracked and peeling tiled floor. He pressed his lips to Flack's forehead, and his nose burrowed into his silky black hair. It smelled of shampoo, gel, and faintly of sweat. His skin was cold and moist from the snowfall outside.

"I would like very much to have this every night," Victor said thoughtfully. "Someone warm in my arms to come home with me. I don't know you, Donald Junior. I don't know if you really are a good boy, or if you're a monster. It doesn't really matter who you are. The soul or self or whatever you call it, it doesn't matter when a person is asleep. It's like newborns, that empty shell could be filled with anything, everything. Don't you think that's beautiful?"

Victor shook Flack a little. Flack stirred, looking around wildly. A cop's instincts, Victor thought in amusement.

"What? What?" Flack looked up at him, relaxed. "Oh, Victor." He yawned. "Where are we?"

Victor lost himself for a moment, replied, "Home."

Flack just nodded sleepily. The elevator arrived, and they went in. Flack moved away from Victor then, leaning against the elevator wall. He threw his head back, breathing deeply, slowly. He did not shut his eyes, but stared at the mirrored elevator ceiling.

"Were you askin' me something?"

"No," Victor lied.

Flack grinned. "You're really not still on the clock, right? Ragno's damn club isn't going to charge me my weight in gold when my card is charged?"

"No, this is personal time, trust me," Victor assured him.

"Yeah?" Flack rubbed his face with his hand, reviving somewhat. "I guess I won't be getting any more of what I paid for, then?"

Victor came up to him, holding him by the tie. "Do you want a little more of what you paid for, Don?"

"I dunno, maybe?"

Victor bent forward, and brought his lips to Flack's. Flack's arms encircled his neck, and he leaned into the kiss with unbridled passion. The air between them became warm, sealing them into the long, smoldering kiss.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. They nearly closed again before Victor shot out a hand to stop them. He reluctantly pushed Flack away from him, and pulled him into the hall. Flack went to kiss him again, but Victor stopped him with a finger to his lips.

"Patience, Detective. Patience."

Flack followed him down the hallway. His head was spinning. In a short moment of clarity, he wondered why he felt so out of it. He had barely drank at McCullen's, and that had been hours ago. Was it really exhaustion? He had been exhausted before, but never to the point of near delirium.

Victor unlocked the door to Apartment 304. They came into a small but well-kept apartment. The furniture was sparse, but solidly made. There were many bookshelves, all filled, and some stacks of books beside the sofa and under the coffee table. By the door was a stack of newspapers and another of magazines. Despite the amount of reading material, it was all kept as organized as possible.

Victor removed his coat and jacket, hung them on the coat rack. Flack followed his example, his blue gaze darting around the apartment in frank curiosity.

"Can I get you anything?" Victor asked. "Coffee? Something to eat?"

"Nah. I'm good."

"You sure?" Victor inquired, taking him by the shoulders. "You don't look so good."

Flack grinned, putting his arms around the other man's neck and kissing him. "Believe me," he said, sidling up to him. "I'm good."

"Good?" Victor chuckled, moving him back towards the bedroom door. "Yeah? Good cop? Good boy? Or just good at being bad, hm?"

"Take your pick."

For the second time, Victor undressed Flack with expert swiftness. Flack stumbled out of his pants, kicked off his shoes, as they made their way to the bedroom. Inside, Victor impatiently did away with his own clothing. His olive skin was natural, Flack noted, and not an artificial tan. His legs were long, sinewy muscle, and his upper torso was all lean muscle. Flack pressed his palms against his chest, ran his fingers down along his smooth, cool skin. Despite his obvious eagerness, Victor's heartbeat was steadily regular.

Victor was amused by Don's sudden shyness. His touches were awkward and hesitant. He tentatively kissed Victor's chest, turning bright scarlet as he did.

"You really aren't used to men, are you?"

Don looked up. "Huh? Oh, uh, no. No, it's … just my second time."

"Then why don't you just follow my lead?"

Without waiting for a reply, Victor turned Flack around and pushed him down onto the bed. He stalked over him in a cat-like fashion, treading small kisses down the length of his spine. Flack shivered, his skin breaking into tiny bumps of goose flesh. Victor murmured small things to him, tapping his fingers down Don's body. When he reached his boxers, he slipped two fingers beneath the waistband, then slowly slid them down. This time, he did not simply pull them down beneath his buttocks, but pulled them fully off. He was pleased to see the purple bruises lining the man's bottom, and gave them a few solid smacks.

Don squirmed further onto the bed, wincing at the fresh burst of pain. The more he wriggled, the harder Victor spanked him. Once he was thoroughly smarting again, Victor relented. He kissed the small of his back, rubbing his bottom comfortingly. Don heard the sound of a drawer opening, and glanced over his shoulder. He craned his neck further to glimpse the bruises on his backside, hissing in pain at the sight.

"Ouch," he said. "You didn't even hit me that long."

"I hit hard," Victor said simply. He was pouring liquid from a glass bottle onto his palms. "Lie back down. You talk too much."

Victor gave him a kiss, then pushed his head back down onto the mattress. He began to massage the oil into Don's skin. Nothing else Flack said that night was coherent.


	9. Chapter 9

**09**

**6:20 AM, January 14, 2010**

**Home of Detective Mac Taylor**

Mac rolled over in bed and fumbled for his phone. He did not even look at the contact information, he already knew that it would be Danny Messer. Following their conversation yesterday, Danny had been trying to worm his way back into Mac's home and life. Mac had always found Danny's perseverance charming, but he was beginning to think he was too old to put up with it anymore.

"Danny, I swear to God, if you're calling me at this hour just to-"

"_Whoa, Mac, take it easy!" _Danny's voice came through the phone. _"Believe me, I wouldn't be callin' at this hour for nothing."_

Mac sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you calling, then, Danny?"

A pause. _"Mac, we've got another body. Like Fraser."_

Mac shut his eyes, grimacing as if he had been struck in the gut. "Where?"

Danny gave him the address. Then, he said, _"And Mac, this is … I don't know how to tell you this. It's one of ours."_

"Another cop?"

"_A CSI."_

Mac's hand tightened on the phone. "Who?"

"_One of our lab techs. John Lazaro."_

"I know him," Mac said bleakly. "I also know that he was happily seeing another man. This is a hate crime."

"_The Feds are gonna want in, you think?"_

"Once we can prove the motive, yes, they're going to take it over," Mac said. "Which means that we have a limited amount of time to find this guy ourselves."

"_I'll meet you there with the rest of the team."_

"Yeah. See you, Danny."

Mac had been out of bed since Danny had broken the news, and he already had his clothing laid out. He hung up, went about his morning toilet quickly, and came out to dress. He gathered the files he had been going through on the kitchen table, and then left his apartment.

A blast of wintry air hit his face outside the building, and Mac buttoned his coat up. He hailed a taxi and gave the address of the crime scene. During the ride, he looked out at the gray winter city, and studiously filed away the boiling rage that was burning in his blood.

* * *

The CSI team was already on site with their equipment and the SUV. To Mac's surprise, Flack was not at the scene, but his Captain was. The Captain took Mac aside and explained to him that he could not get a hold of Flack. Mac assured him that Flack was probably only sleeping in, but the news both aggravated and concerned him. For the moment, though, there was nothing to be done about it.

The team had little to say to one another. They were briefed by the Captain, and then went up to the crime scene. The procession had the feel of a funeral march. In the apartment, the team set to work analyzing the scene.

Entry had been made into the kitchen via the window that led onto the fire escape. The killer had used a glass cutter to open a circle in the glass to unlock the window, then he had lifted it open enough to gain entry. From here, he had made his way to the bedroom.

The bedroom door had a latch lock on the inside, which had been damaged when the killer had kicked open the door. There was a large, dirt-choked boot print on the white bedroom door. The bedsheets were thrown off the bed, indicating that Lazaro had been startled out of sleep and jumped out of bed. The bedroom was completely trashed as a result of the ensuing struggle.

Lazaro was also bound to his bed with a set of the Eden of Desires's custom bondage restraints. The knife damage was more extensive than Fraser's had been: his neck was slit from ear to ear. His head lolled at an unnatural angle, tousled brown hair fallen over his eyes, blood trailing from his chin like a beard. He was entirely naked, leaving the castration damage plainly visible. Danny turned his back on the entire scene for a moment, and Lindsay put her hand on his shoulder.

"TOD is around four this morning," Hawkes said after checking the liver temperature. "He's so messed up that we'll have to rely on Sid's autopsy for Cause of Death, but given the blood spray from the neck wound, I would put my money on that being it."

"Jesus," Stella murmured. She walked around a pool of blood that had soaked through the carpet beside the bed, tagging various objects strewn across the floor and then photographing them.

"No hesitation in any of these wounds that I'm seeing," Hawkes said. "Fraser was overkill, and this … this is just … "

"Total annihilation," Danny said. His hands curled into fists. "Sick son-of-a-bitch."

Mac squeezed Danny's shoulder. "Are you going to be all right, Danny?"

"Yeah," Danny said. He removed his glasses, squeezed the bridge of his nose, and replaced them. "Yeah. I'm gonna do my job, Mac."

"You're sure?"

Lindsay paused in her work to look over at them. Mac was standing very close to Danny, and he touched his shoulder with the same amount of tenderness she just had. She shook her head, chiding herself for being paranoid. This case was making everyone emotional, and Mac always paid special attention to all of his friends.

"Guys, will you listen to me for a minute?"

Everyone looked over at Mac. It took a special kind of man to command attention so quickly and completely, Danny thought.

"I know that this case has thrown everyone," Mac said. "It came at an inopportune personal time for some of us, and it involves the force that we are all a part of. We have also had a difficult time finding and processing any evidence of value. This has led us to speculate and try to otherwise figure this thing out, out of desperation and out of fear."

Mac met each one of them in the eyes, before going on.

"But we are CSI. Today, when the press is going to explode into a full-out frenzy, and the public is going to panic- **Today**, more than ever, we have to _be _CSI. No more speculation, no more theorizing, no more talk. We find the evidence, we process it, we piece it together, and we go from there. No matter how clever this killer thinks that he is, he is still a human, and humans are imperfect beings. The evidence is there. We will find it, and it will find the killer."

Danny and Stella nodded in agreement.

"Now let's get to it," Mac said. "Let's make this crime scene the killer's last."

* * *

Mac lasted all of two hours before his concern for Flack finally got the better of him. Cursing the errant detective, he called his number several times. Upon receiving no answer, he took time out of the investigation to drive to his apartment. Fortunately, it was not far from Lazaro's home. Unfortunately, Flack did not answer the door. Mac tried the door. It was locked- not that that was ever a problem for a CSI.

_I told the team not to make speculations, and here I am being paranoid, _Mac thought bitterly. He unlocked the door and went inside. _Damn Flack. Did he have to go missing during this case?_

"Don? Don!" Mac called. "Are you here? Flack! Wake up!"

Flack was nowhere in the apartment. There was evidence that he had attempted to sleep (the bed covers were undone), but his coat and a pair of shoes were gone. Mac took a moment to vividly picture what he would do when he found Flack, and then he left the apartment. In a fouler mood than ever, he headed to McCullen's.

McCullen was not at the bar. Mac asked around, and one of the serving girls informed him that Flack had not been in since yesterday evening. According to her, he had only had a drink, maybe two, and left.

Mac tried to call Flack again, but it went straight to voicemail. With his trail gone cold, Mac had no choice but to wait for more information to surface- or Flack himself to appear.

Mac's phone rang and he answered it. "Taylor."

"_Hey, Mac, this is Adam."_

"Adam, tell me you've got something."

"_Yeah, I ran the code on the dog tag Stella and Danny found at Fraser's apartment yesterday," _Adam said. _"D3-ATS? At first, I got nothing. It isn't any official organization, and it doesn't represent any group of federal enforcement. But I kept digging, and I finally found something. This website was buried, man, completely off the grid. Hidden from search engines, not tagged in any database, nothing. Nada."_

"And what _is _this website, Adam?"

"_It's a forum for members of this movement group called 'D3-ATS', and get this: they're anti-gay advocates that specifically target the military and law enforcement. The name of the group is a take on DADT. Their motto is 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Serve'. Get it? Three 'D's and the first initial of 'Ask', 'Tell', and 'Serve'? Pretty lame, if you ask me, but-"_

"Send me the link, Adam," Mac said. "Send it to my phone. Now. I need to see this page."

"_Done. Hey, I'm working on getting information on the registered users on the site and the people who maintain it. I'll call you once I've got some names."_

"Right. Thanks a lot, Adam."

"_No problem, boss."_

Mac hung up and clicked onto the webpage. He browsed through the vitriolic nonsense with the same expression of disgust on his face as Flack had had the previous day. He saw that there was a meeting of these D3-ATS characters coming up that evening.

_This might just be the first lead we've gotten on this case, _Mac thought. _Damn it! Where is Flack? This meeting is exactly the kind of thing he should go into undercover. If I can't find him by tonight, I'll have to send one of the CSI team. How can he be so irresponsible?_

Mac glanced down the street morosely. _I hope you are just being irresponsible, Don. If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself._

* * *

**9:04 AM, January 14, 2010**

**Eden of Desires Club**

Edmund Ragno was a man of fine but sensible tastes. He wore only designer clothing, but half of his wardrobe consisted of vintage finds. All of his furniture was secondhand, though he had it remixed with modern aesthetic touches and new finishes and fabrics. He only drank fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, but he ate a variety of take-out egg sandwiches from the small local diners with it. This morning, he was sitting down to such a meal in his office at the club, when his secretary buzzed his phone.

"_Mr. Ragno? There are police here?"_

Ragno rolled his eyes skyward, praying to any one of the myriad deities that most likely did not exist. He set down his sandwich slowly and pressed the phone button with the corner of a finger. "Send them up."

Ragno could not return to his breakfast. He drummed his fingers on his desk. He hoped that this did not have to do with Flack's shockingly sudden interest in S&M. He had never fully trusted Victor Brant, who had a reputation with the clients for playing rough and even claiming not to have heard a safe word the first time. When Victor had left the club with a half-asleep Flack, claiming he was taking him home, Ragno had had a sinking feeling.

This ominous mood darkened when the police came into his office- sans Flack. He knew Flack would never pass up an opportunity to rib him. His absence did not bode well.

"Mr. Ragno? I'm Detective Mac Taylor, this is Detective Bonasera. We're here to talk to you about one of your freelance employees? A Mr. Victor Brant?"

Ragno rubbed at his bottom lip furiously, mentally swearing for the millionth time that he would shave his mustache once and for all. He stood and shook their hands in turn. He did not sit back down.

"I told him not to use him!"

Stella and Mac shared a bewildered look.

"Excuse me?" Mac inquired.

"Your Detective Flack!" Ragno blurted out. "I swear, I warned him against using Brant! But that-that randomly perverse detective of yours insisted!"

Mac walked up to the desk. "What about Flack?"

"He didn't listen to me!"

"Sit down!" Mac snapped sharply. "Shut up. Think for a moment. Then tell me exactly what happened with Detective Flack."

Ragno blinked, and sank into his chair.

"You didn't come here about Flack?"

"No, we didn't," Stella said. "We came here because one of the men your club signed a check to a few years ago is a person of interest in a murder investigation."

"Victor Brant?" Ragno asked. "Why?"

"For starters, he's involved with an anti-gay organization we believe to be a hate group," Mac replied. "D3-ATS?"

"I've never heard of it," Ragno said in dismay. "Anti-gay? But Brant _is _gay. At least, he led me to believe that he was. But why would he …?"

"Tell me what you know about Brant," Mac said. "Then tell me what he has to do with Don Flack."

"Victor Brant has worked freelance for us on and off since we opened our doors," Ragno explained. "That is why we paid him in the form of a check, that was back before we switched over to paying our freelancers in cash. He's a very private man, although not as paranoid about being affiliated with the club as some of our other freelancers. But he doesn't socialize with the other entertainers, or the clients. He has been known to be rough, almost excessively so. I only let him take clients that want a little extra pain, and are … forgiving."

"Forgiving?"

"I've had a few complaints about Victor," Ragno said. "He'll get in a few extra whacks, or a little extra bondage time, and then claim he didn't hear the safe word. That sort of thing."

"He's sadistic?"

"Completely," Ragno affirmed. "That is why I _told _Detective Flack to use another entertainer."

"When?" Mac asked. "Flack has been here? Used this club's … services?"

"Last night, Flack came in here-"

"When?" Mac interrupted.

"It was almost midnight," Ragno said. "He was behaving strangely, Flack. He seemed nervous and depressed, wired and inebriated, all at the same time. I thought he was here to give us more legal trouble- he shut us down when we first opened up, and he had been there earlier talking about a murder- but he said that he was here as a customer, not a cop. He said he wanted an appointment! Can you believe it?"

Stella raised an eyebrow at Mac. Mac knew what she was thinking, and avoided her gaze.

"Anyway," Ragno went on, "your Flack came in here demanding an appointment. What was I going to do, refuse him? So he could shut us down again? So, I told him fine. He seemed to know what he wanted: a male dominant. Heh. You think you know a guy, right?"

"If you didn't want him to use Brant, why did you-"

"_I _didn't set it up," Ragno said defensively. "It just so happened that Victor Brant was leaving the club. He passed by the reception desk where I was attempting to set up an appointment for your kinky detective, and he must have overheard Flack's demands. He came back and offered to fit Flack in last night before he left. He said that he needed the extra cash, and that he likes the cute ones. Which he does. Me, personally, I think the detective is a bit plain, and those eyebrows! But Victor liked him. Of all the luck, right? Flack happening to be Brant's type … "

"Brant has a type?" Mac asked, his blood chilling. He thought of Alan Fraser, and how similar his coloring and build were to Flack's. Lazaro was also tall, dark-haired, and handsome. "What type is that?"

"Well, Brant is very tall, six-foot-four, so he likes men that are nearly his height, but not taller," Ragno said. He typed something into his computer and put his round glasses on to read the screen. "Let's see. Males five-foot-nine to six-foot-one, hair brown or black, slender and fit, no preference as to eye color, no racial preference. He likes bold personalities- well, that certainly describes Flack, doesn't it? We record all our entertainers and clients preferences, so we can pair them up with as much chemistry as possible."

"I'm going to need this Brant's home address," Mac said tightly. "Now."

"I don't have it," Ragno said. "When he was paid with a check, it was exchanged from hand to hand, not mailed."

Mac told Stella to call Adam and try to trace Brant's address. He turned back to Ragno.

"What happened after Brant made his offer?"

"I tried to warn Flack about him," Ragno said. "Flack got all defiant. He agreed to take the appointment with Brant, like he had something to prove. Like I said, I wasn't exactly up for getting on Flack's bad side. So, I wrote the appointment into our records, and Flack paid. I even gave him a discount. Then, they went upstairs."

"Where?"

"To one of the playrooms," Ragno said. "We have over a dozen suites, all designed around whatever thematic fantasy a client can imagine. We leave the choice of room up to the client, and if they have no preference, the entertainer usually chooses. There are no cameras in the playrooms, though there are in the hallways."

"We'll need the footage from last night."

"Of course," Ragno said. "They weren't up there for very long, about half an hour, maybe? When they came back down, Flack was exhausted. He looked like he had been crying, although that's common for these kinds of things. Some people like a little misery with their pleasure. Victor had an arm around him, he was supporting him. He told me that he was off the clock, that he was taking Flack home."

"To his own home?"

"I'm assuming so," Ragno said. "Although, I've never seen Brant get personal with a client before. But it was obvious that he was pretty hot for Flack. If they wanted to take their appointment farther than play, they would have had to leave the club. As I've told Flack a thousand times, we do not sell sex here."

"Maybe not," Mac said, "but you might have just sold Flack something far, far worse."


	10. Chapter 10

**10**

**9:40 AM, January 14, 2010**

**Home of Victor Brant**

Flack struggled to lift himself up, failed, and collapsed into the pillows with a groan. Pain shot through his body. He fumbled a hand across the bed weakly.

Victor caught his hand, squeezed it, and chuckled softly. He had been awake for a while now, simply watching Flack. He kissed the top of Flack's hand, murmuring, "Rise and shine, Donald Junior."

"I told you noth to cab me thab," came Flack's pillow-muffled protest. He snatched his hand away, used it to wipe saliva from the corner of his mouth. He turned his face from the pillow to squint up at Victor. "What the hell happened last night?"

"Well, it's better than 'who are you', I guess," Victor said. "You do remember me, don't you?"

"Yeah, Victor, I do," Flack grumbled, rubbing his bottom. "How could I forget anyone that hits that hard?"

"Mm, poor baby." Victor gave him a languid kiss. He pulled him closer, so Flack's head rested on his chest. "You sore?"

"You think?"

"I could put something on it, if you want."

"Again?"

"Not _that_," laughed Victor. He gave Flack a curious look. "Unless that's what you want?"

"Mmm, it would be ni-" Flack's eyes fell on the clock. "Holy shit! Is that the time?"

"That's generally what clocks tell, yes."

"Oh jeez, Mac's gonna kill me!" Flack exclaimed. He painfully sat up, and swung his legs down from the bed. "Where're my clothes? Shit!"

Victor, who had already dressed and showered before returning to bed to lounge with Flack, followed him. He helped him gather his clothes from around the bedroom, handing him the pieces. Flack pulled them on as he went. Suddenly, he stopped, swayed, and nearly fell. Victor caught him.

"Whoa, hey, what happened?"

Flack sank into a chair, holding his head. "I don't know. Everything started spinning all of a sudden." He gave his head a quick shake. "It was like that last night. I don't get it, I wasn't even drunk. I mean, I've been drinking a lot lately, but not yesterday. But I feel … weird."

Victor clapped him on the shoulder. "Probably a cumulative effect. Or fatigue. Here, I'll get you some water."

"Yeah, thanks."

Flack continued getting his clothes and dressing, going more slowly. He took a glass of water from Victor, drank it, and headed for the bathroom. He emptied his bladder and cleaned up as much as possible. He had no toothbrush, so he used a bottle of mouthwash. He opened the medicine cabinet for aspirin, but the shelves were completely empty.

"Hey, you don't get sick, or what?" he asked Victor once he was out of the bathroom.

"You looked through my medicine cabinet?" Victor asked in amusement. He was at the stove, cooking breakfast.

"Uh, yeah."

Victor shook his head. "I keep the aspirin in that cabinet over there." He pointed with a spatula. "I'm not in here much, so the rest of my medicine is in my office."

"Office? At the club?"

"No," Victor said. "I told you, I only freelance at the Eden of Desires. I _do _have a day job. Maybe we'll even meet in the real world sometime. Here."

Victor handed Flack a plate of fried egg and toast. Flack proceeded to eat on his feet. Victor smirked.

"Don't feel like sitting down at the table?"

"Don't feel like sitting down, period," Flack said honestly. "You know, this is the second day in a row someone has cooked for me. I usually do the cooking."

"Yeah?" Victor leaned on the counter, chewing the egg and ham sandwich he had put together for himself. "Who cooked for you yesterday? The guy you mentioned you were going to get together with? Taylor, was it?"

"Yeah, Mac," Flack said, pushing egg yolk around with his fork. A shadow crossed his face, but then it cleared into a lopsided grin. "You're a better cook, though. Almost as good as I am."

"Almost, huh? Well, I'm pretty rusty," Victor said. "I don't usually bother. My work keeps me busy. I eat on the go."

"Same here, when I'm on-duty. Like I'm supposed to be _now_."

Victor watched him wolf down the last of his food. "You'll choke if you keep that up."

"I'm good." Flack shoved the last of it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it all down with his juice. "I gotta go."

Victor caught him by the arm. Flack started, looking back. Victor's grip was like a vice. He pulled him back to his side, slipping his other arm around Flack's waist. He gave him a fierce kiss that sent sparks of arousal shooting through Flack's entire body. He forgot everything for a moment, yielding to the burning closeness.

"Do you want to be with me?"

Flack raised his eyebrows, breathless from the kiss. "Wh- I-"

"Just tell me. Yes or no."

"I don't even really know you." Flack said weakly. "Before yesterday, I never even thought I would ever want to be in a real relationship with another guy. I still don't really, I mean-"

Victor kissed him again, pulling him impossibly closer. The layers of clothing between them felt dangerously flimsy. Victor turned him, and leaned him back over the counter. After his mouth left Flack gasping for air, he wrapped it around Flack's neck, biting softly. The tickle of his tongue just below Flack's jaw made him tremble.

"So," Victor huffed, bringing his face level with Flack's again. He brushed Flack's hair off his forehead, running his finger down his cheek. He pressed a thumb against Flack's bottom lip, slightly swollen from the force of the kiss. "Yes, or no?"

"All right, yeah," Flack gave in. "I do. I do want to be with you."

"Good," Victor murmured. His green eyes bore into Flack's, deep and unfathomable as the depths of a lake. "But I don't like my lovers serving two masters."

"What do you mean? You mean, Mac?"

"Yes. Mac." Victor took Flack's tie into his hand and tugged it lightly. "The one that first spanked you, right?"

Flack shut his eyes, mortified. He could not believe that he had spilled so much to a stranger last night. Even worse, Victor had apparently been paying close attention. "Yeah."

"Mac may have a professional reason to keep you on a tight leash-" Victor pulled the tie more firmly. "-but if you're going to be with me, that better be all the control he has over you."

"Mac is my friend," Flack said, his eyes hardening. "I respect him. That isn't gonna change just because we're having sex."

"Do you love him?"

"_What_?" Flack searched Victor's eyes. He was growing uncomfortable with Victor's hold on his tie, being bent backwards over the kitchen counter. "I could have loved Mac, yeah, but I didn't get the chance. I'm free to hook up with you, but if you think you're going to be more important to me than my friends, my job, then you're wrong."

Victor smiled, nodding. "That's all I needed to know."

Victor released Flack, moved off of him. Flack straightened up, hands gripping the counter. He was hot and aroused physically, but inwardly chilled. For a moment there, he thought that he had seen a coldness in Victor's eyes that he recognized: the steely glint of a man that had taken lives.

"What the hell, Victor?" Flack asked irritably. "What is this?"

"Sorry," Victor apologized blandly. "I get interested in seeing a person's response to certain situations. I can get carried away, test them. It's an old habit."

"So did I pass your damn test?"

"It isn't a school exam," Victor said. "But you're loyal, and honest. Most people aren't."

"I really gotta get to work."

"Fine," Victor said. He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Flack coolly. "But I did mean it about Mac. If he's taken, remember that he's taken. Don't let him pull that leash too tightly."

"_**No one**_ has me on any leash," Flack said. "Not Mac, and not you, either. _You_ remember _that_."

Flack threw on his coat, and left the apartment. Victor ran his tongue over his lower lip, then smiled.

"And you remember that that can always change, Donald Junior."

* * *

**10:00 AM, January 14, 2010**

**CSI Building**

The entire CSI team gathered for a case review after the Lazaro crime scene had been processed. All the evidence they had collected was being analyzed, and they were waiting on Sid's autopsy report. Mac stood before the computer monitors to address the room. Stella, Danny, Lindsay, Hawkes, and Adam sat at the conference table.

"First, I want to review the timeline as we know it," Mac said. "On January 12, Alan Fraser was murdered in his apartment, with TOD being approximately 9:45. Fifteen minutes later, a neighbor called in the disturbance. Units arrived on scene at 10:20. We were called in once the scene was secured, and we arrived around 11:00."

Mac brought up a picture of the second victim, John Lazaro, to the screen.

"At roughly 4:00 this morning, John Lazaro was murdered in his home," Mac said. "According to neighbors, a disturbance was heard in his apartment, but it was attributed to a television set or sexual activity, and hence not called in. Lazaro was found due to an anonymous tip, called in at 5:45 this morning."

"Making it about thirty hours between the two murders," Danny said. "On the one hand, that time frame fits with a spree. On the other, sprees are usually frenetic, random, and sloppy, whereas these murders are methodical to a fault."

"Not to speculate any more than necessary, but the pattern most closely resembles a mission-oriented spree," Mac said. "These murders could have been planned out months, even years in advance. Which means that the targets were all pre-selected, and anyone fitting whatever profile the killer is targeting could be on that kill list."

Mac changed the pictures on the screen.

"Now for the evidence, scarce as it is," he said. "This is the knife model used in both murders: an M9 Bayonet, the standard knife model issued to the US Army and US Marine Corps since 1984. Fraser's parents confirmed that he left all of his military possessions at their home in Florida, and had a neighbor check to confirm that Fraser's knife was not stolen. Therefor, the knife belongs to the killer, whether issued to him or bought from a civilian source.

"The restraints, on the other hand, _are _stolen," Mac continued, pointing them out. "The S&M fantasy club, Eden of Desires, confirmed that seven sets were stolen from them at the end of December. The cuffs have a custom design etched into the metalwork, which confirms that the set used to restrain Lazaro is the second of the seven stolen sets. Eden of Desires has strict security standards, but these were relaxed during the time of the robbery, due to an after-holiday rush of business and a security systems annual reboot. Given the timing of the robbery, it is highly probable that the suspect of the robbery was familiar with the operations of this club, and possibly is employed or has been employed there."

The door to the conference room opened, and they all looked back. Even Mac could not keep the shock from his face when Flack walked in. Flack's eyes widened a bit as he saw everyone gaping at him.

"Hey." He grinned nervously. "I miss anything?"

The CSI team's eyes all went immediately to Mac. A surge of pure fury overtook Mac, blotting out everyone and everything but Flack. Only the trickle of relief beneath it managed to keep him from acting on his first, rather violent impulse. His hands unclenched, and he collected himself.

"Have a seat, Don," Mac said tersely. "We were just going over the crime scenes."

Flack was baffled. "Crime _scenes_?"

Danny jumped to his feet. "Yeah, we got another vic. Come on. Sit down." He added, in a whisper into Flack's ear, "Before Mac freaking kills you, okay?"

Flack jerked, just now seeing the deadly gleam in Mac's eyes. He rushed into a chair, doing his best not to cringe when his backside hit the seat. Mac stared at him for a long moment. Flack's ears turned red, and he bowed his head, pretending it was to scratch his neck.

"This is the dog tag recovered from Fraser's apartment," Mac continued. "It's marked D3-AST, which-"

"Hey, yeah, I got something on that!" Flack interrupted.

The corner of Mac's mouth twitched. Danny rubbed his mouth with the palm of his hand. He would not be surprised if Mac threw him over the conference table and belted him a few good ones right there.

"This jerk guy at my precinct is a member of D3-AST," Flack said. "They're an anti-gay movement-"

"Aimed at forcing the homosexual community out of federal law enforcement agencies and the military," Mac finished. "Yes, we found that link, Don. Yesterday."

"Oh. Okay, cool."

Mac shut his eyes briefly. _God, give me strength._

"The boot prints found at both scenes are a match to this military issue boot, size thirteen," Mac went on. He clicked through the photos on the computer screen. "The slush outside Lazaro's building froze this morning, preserving tire treads that belong to a 2009 Ford Fusion. There were reports of a dark-colored car left running outside Lazaro's building, just like the night Fraser was killed. We're currently running a cross search of D3-AST members and registered owners of a dark blue or black Ford Fusion."

One of the lab techs walked in with a folder. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. The lab staff had been in mourning for John Lazaro since Mac had announced his death. Danny took the folder, offered her some words of condolence, and then sat down, looking through it.

"Okay, now this is something," Danny said, his eyes racing through the words on the pages. "I swabbed the drains of the sink, toilet, and bathtub at Fraser's apartment the other day. There _were_ traces of skin flakes, too degraded for DNA analysis, Fraser's blood, and another substance. MASPEC identified it as chloro, nitroquinoline. I identified it as something called Imiquimod, a prescription topical medication used for a variety of afflictions, including alopecia universalis."

Realization dawned in Mac's eyes.

"What the heck is that?" Flack asked.

"Alopecia universalis is a medical condition that causes a rapid and total loss of hair," Hawkes told him. "It's an autoimmune disorder that causes the body to attack its own hair follicles, suppressing or completely stopping hair growth."

"That could explain why not a single hair was found at either crime scene," Stella said. "It's extremely rare, with an incidence rate of only one in two-hundred thousand."

"Adam, I'm going to want you to see if anyone registered on the D3-ATS site has been treated for that condition," Mac ordered. "Nice work, Danny."

Mac's phone beeped. He checked it. "That was a text from Sid. The autopsy results are in." Mac looked around the room.. "Danny, Lindsay, I want you two to keep working on trace from Lazaro's scene. Stella, help Adam with his search, and call me the minute anything pops. Flack … come with me to Autopsy, please."

The team dispersed. Flack got to his feet, waiting while Mac turned off the computer and gathered his folders.

"Mac, I'm sorry I'm so late," Flack started. "I must have missed the alarm and-"

Mac held up a hand, refusing to look at him. "Not now, Don."

"But-"

Mac lifted his head. "I said, not now."

Flack was silent. Mac brought his things to his office, set them on the desk, and then headed to the elevators. Flack followed along with a dogged expression on his face.

"I know that you weren't at your apartment, Don," Mac said in the elevator. "I went to your home and let myself in to make sure that you hadn't died of alcohol poisoning."

"I wasn't drinking yesterday," Flack said. "Not much. I thought about it, went to McCullen's, but I quit after a couple."

"Really? And is that why the owner of the Eden of Desires Club reported that you were acting strange when you requested an appointment with one of their entertainers?"

Flack paled. Mac pressed the Emergency Stop button, and the elevator stilled.

"Stella and I went to the club to ask for-" Mac paused. He decided to keep his suspicions regarding Victor Brant to himself for the moment. "-more information. Edmund Ragno informed us of your late-night venture into S&M."

"Ragno's a pimp and a liar," Flack said weakly. "He's got a grudge against me."

"Save it!" Mac snapped. "Save it, Don! This is the _third_ time you go missing in the middle of a case. The third time, Don! And where do you go? You go to a club we're investigating, to have a homosexual rendezvous with a sadist? _Now_? With all this going on?"

"So what?"

Mac blinked in surprise. "So what?"

"It was personal time," Flack said brashly. He was still smarting over Victor's comment about being on a leash. "I didn't have my badge or my gun. I was off-duty. What I choose to do with my life is my business, Mac. I was … off your leash."

"Off my leash? I don't have you on a goddamn leash, Don!" Mac yelled at him. "Sometimes, I swear, I wish I did, but I don't! But just because no one is watching you doesn't mean that you have to be so stupid! You could have been murdered, do you realize that? It could be you lying dead in your apartment instead of Lazaro!"

Flack shrugged, crossing his arms. He had the expression of a particularly difficult boy facing down his principal.

"It's got nothing to do with you or the case, Mac," he said. "You want to report me for missing a few calls this morning, go ahead, but I'm not gonna let you stand there and lecture me about the dangers of adult entertainment. Not _you_, of all people, all right?"

Mac was very still for a moment. Then, before Flack even saw the motion, he swung back and slapped him full across the face. Flack cried out in shock.

"Ah! What the fuck!" Flack rubbed his cheek, stunned. Mac took him by the shirt and slammed him against the elevator wall. Flack struggled diffidently. "Get off me!"

"I'm not going to lecture you about whatever distraction you're trying to bury yourself in now, but I _am_ going to lecture you about Victor Brant!"

"Victor? What _about _him?"

"He's a suspect, Don!" Mac roared, shaking him. "We went to Eden of Desires to investigate _him_! That's why Stella and I were there this morning!"

"Investigate? Why?"

"Because he's registered on the D3-ATS website!" Mac said. "He works at the club that was robbed of the restraints used in two murders! He's a known sadist, he lives completely off the grid! Do you understand? You could have slept with him only _hours _before he murdered John Lazaro!"

"No way!" Flack protested. "No! I was with him the entire night!"

"Awake?"

"Well, no, but-"

"My God, Don! Have you even looked in the mirror?" Mac flipped Don around to face the reflective elevator wall. "Do you see your pupils? Didn't you feel anything last night? You were drugged!"

"I'm not fucking stoned!" Flack whipped around and pushed Mac. "Get away from me! What the hell is your problem?"

"What is _yours_?" Mac asked. "Don, I get it, you're in pain, I know that. But you're acting like- like-"

"Go ahead, say it," Don demanded furiously. "Like my sister. That's what you were going to say, right? So go ahead. SAY IT!"

"At least your sister never pretended," Mac said harshly. "Whatever she was going through, whatever pain she was in, she never denied it. She owned it. She took these risks, yes, but she never risked anyone or anything else. It's you, Don. You're risking not only your own life, but this investigation, the integrity of the NYPD, your job, and your friendships. You wanted so badly to be like your sister, Don? Did you? Well, congratulations, you're worse."

Don looked more stricken than when he had been slapped. His blue eyes welled with tears, and he heaved several deep breaths. His arm shot forward. Mac expected a punch, but he only hit the elevator button.

"Fuck you," Don said. "Fuck you, Mac!"

The elevator doors opened, and Flack rushed out. Mac stared after him until the doors closed again.

"Damn it." Mac hit the wall, and then repeated the gesture several times. "_Damn it_!"

* * *

"Are you all right?"

Danny looked up from his microscope. "Huh?"

Lindsay continued looking at her evidence, piecing it together. "You've been quiet the last couple of days. Is it the case?"

"Well, yeah, obviously," Danny said shortly.

"I didn't mean it that way," Lindsay said softly. She looked at him. "Hey, this case has pissed us all off. I didn't mean that you would be more upset by it just because you were, you know-"

"Gay?" Danny provided. He stood up from the microscope, rubbing his eyes. "Well, I am gay. It's not that I 'was', Lindsay. I'm bisexual, always. It doesn't go on and off like a switch."

"Okay."

Danny put his glasses on. "Listen, Montana, we have to talk. There's something I need to-" His phone rang. "Hold on."

Danny answered his phone. A frown creased his face as he listened. He glanced at Lindsay, and then moved to the other side of the lab. Respecting his obvious need for privacy, Lindsay continued with her evidence.

Danny was pale and dazed when he returned to the table. He stared nowhere for a moment. Then, he put his glasses back on.

"What was it?"

Danny looked at her, through her. "Nothing," he said hollowly. "I … I have to … I have to go find Mac."

Danny rushed from the lab, not even noticing Lindsay's pained expression. He recalled that Mac had gone to Autopsy, and so he headed there. He bounced on his heels in the elevator, willing it to go faster.

Once in the ME's territory, Danny broke into a run. In fact, he ran straight past Mac, who had been walking towards the elevators. Mac turned on his heels, snatched Danny by the sleeve.

"Danny? Danny!"

Danny turned around, ready to break away, but stopped once he saw Mac. Mac pulled him closer, alarmed. "What is it, Danny? What happened?"

"Mac, it's my family," Danny said. "No, don't worry, they're not hurt. Can we go somewhere more private than this hall?"

Mac put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the freezer storage. It was cold, but empty for the moment. Mac lowered his hand, but kept it on Danny's arm.

"What happened, Danny?"

"They've been getting phone calls," Danny said. "My family. They ignored them at first, but after they heard about these possible hate crimes on the news, they decided to tell me. Someone has been calling them and insulting me. They … They've asked my parents if they know what 'disgusting' things I've been up to- with _you_."

"Me?" Mac frowned. "That makes no sense. We only came out to our friends, and we haven't even been together in the past two years. Everyone has seen you with Lindsay."

"I know," Danny said. "I'm going to see if I can get any more information on the calls at all when I get back up to the lab. My parents know to take threats seriously, though. They wrote down the contents of the calls, and they're sending those notes over. Get this, the caller never left a message, he kept calling and calling. They're afraid to pick up the phone, want to get the number changed. But what if this guy knows where they live, Mac? How did he even get their number? They aren't listed."

"Danny, I'm more worried about the killer knowing where _you_ live," Mac said. "This is new. Fraser's parents didn't get any calls, but they live in Florida. Lazaro's people are in New Mexico."

"You think _I'm_ this freak's next target?" Danny asked. "That he's harassing my family as a warning?"

"We can't jump to conclusions, but we can't be too careful, either," Mac said. "I'll make sure local patrols keep an eye on your family. As for you, I don't want you going anywhere outside this lab alone."

"I don't plan on it," Danny said. "Why my family, Mac? Why are they trying to out me to them? I've never even told them, Mac. Now they're asking me all kinds of questions. What am I going to tell them?"

"Maybe you should tell them the truth."

"What?" Danny hopped up to sit on one of the metal tables. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor is actually telling me to come out the closet?"

"Danny, would you do me a favor?" Mac requested. "Don't ever, _**ever **_call me that again, please?"

Danny smiled. "Can't say I'm not happy to hear that. Changing your policies, Mac?"

"Danny, I've never thought I was right about much," Mac said. He hoisted up to sit beside Danny on the table. "The law is usually black and white. Even with extenuating circumstances, the laws are set, and they are either followed or broken. There is a system in place, and although it isn't perfect, it's there. When it comes to love, however … People like to think that there are rules. The Bible, the Koran, the Torah, all the religions and philosophies, hundreds of millions of systems intended to govern love and emotion, and yet every day someone pens another, while someone else loses faith in their particular system. The heart is ungovernable."

Danny nodded, putting his hand over Mac's.

"The consequence of that is that we don't always fit into the systems those around us believe are right," Mac said. "So some of us hide our differences, while others embrace them. Some use them as a weapon to fight against the systems that govern their life. I always thought that hiding the aspects of my life that would be perceived as flaws would be the most honorable choice. I thought that I was making a noble sacrifice: sparing my parents the battle of trying to accept a son so radically different from their image of what their son should be, not complicating my military career, protecting my lovers from scrutiny."

"And now?" Danny asked. "You don't think you made the right choice?"

"There is no right and wrong in these cases," Mac said. "I made the only choice I thought that I could. I made the choice that worked for me at the time."

"But this case has given you doubts?"

"No, it didn't start with this case," Mac said. "I suppose this case has only brought those doubts back to the surface. Chief among those doubts is that I missed an opportunity with my parents. They loved me, or loved the son they thought they had. For better or worse, I never gave them the chance to love the son that they actually had."

"Do you think they would have?" Danny asked. "Loved you as you actually are, I mean?"

"I don't know," Mac replied. "That is my biggest regret: never finding out."

"But could you have stood it if they hadn't? Wouldn't it have destroyed you?"

"It would have hurt," Mac said. "I won't say that it wouldn't have cut me to the core. But I would have _known_. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do." Danny squeezed Mac's hand. "I just don't know if I could survive it. Having my family look at me like I'm from another planet or something. Knowing they're thinking of how I'm sinning my way into Hell. Ruining their dreams of my finding a wife and having kids."

"We could have kids."

Danny gaped at him, and laughed. "We that serious already?"

Mac's ears turned red. "I, ah, I only meant that _if _we were together, it would be possible. Plenty of homosexual couples have children. You know that."

"I do." Danny scrutinized him. "You'd do that? Raise my babies with me?"

"_Your_ babies?" Mac repeated with a chuckle. "And what makes you think I wouldn't want to have one with my own DNA?"

"Would you?"

Mac slid down from the table. "You're digressing, Danny. Come on. Focus." He took Danny by the hips and pulled him down from the table. "We have to get back to work on this case and solve this thing. Once that's done, we can figure everything else out."

"I guess I'm just trying to think of the future as much as possible, now that I know _we _have one."

Mac opened his mouth to protest, but it died in his throat. After the harrowing confrontation with Flack, after being immersed in fear that he could lose Danny at the hand of this hate-filled murderer, he could no longer sustain his wounded pride. Even the strongest logical minds had their breaking points.

"We do have a future together?" Danny asked, reading Mac as he always did. "Don't we?"

The mind was a traitor. It doubted at the happiest occasions, wept at the most ridiculous, laughed at the darkest hours. Mac's mind assaulted him with the memory of the moment Danny had confessed his affair to him. It brought back in perfect detail the way his heart had tightened, his breath catching in his throat. At the time, he had thought that he was having a heart attack. A part of him had almost wanted to die.

Even with these thoughts running through his traitorous mind, Mac's heart ached for Danny. His body reacted before either mind or heart could intervene. He took Danny's face into both hands and kissed him. It was hesitant and chaste, but still felt as if he were a dehydrated man taking his first sip of water. Giving Danny a second chance could very well be the worst decision of his life, but he knew that he would never regret this moment.

Mac drew back, and rested his forehead against Danny's. Their eyes met, blue and green, each glistening with more feeling than could be expressed in speech.

"We do have a future," Mac said, sounding more certain than he felt. "If you want it. With me."

Mac realized that Danny had matured since their breakup. His face was largely unmarked by time, but his eyes had a depth that had not been present before. The intensity was not only reckless, youthful passion, but a long-burning flame.

"I want it," Danny said simply. He embraced Mac fully, resting his chin on his shoulder. With nothing in his voice but honesty, he said, "I love you, Mac."

Mac rubbed his back, soaking in the feel of him. Discovering the feel of him had been a thrill the first time, and rediscovering him was doubly enthralling. Whatever dark corners of memory his mind had turned to, his tactical memory now filled his brain with its own remembered sensations. He could feel the familiar curve of each bone through Danny's shirt, and his nose filled with the scent of cheap shampoo, aftershave, city air, and Danny's natural smell.

"I love you, too, Danny."

Mac pulled back, holding Danny at arms' length.

"Let's go and wrap this case up," Mac said. "I want to start in on this future. It won't be easy, but … it's all I've ever had."

Danny smiled broadly, his eyes moist. "Yeah." He hit Mac's shoulder affectionately. "Yeah. Let's do this."


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

**4:32 PM January 14, 2010**

**Home of Victor Brant**

It had taken a lot of digging, but Adam Ross had finally located Victor Brant's home address. Mac was still angry with Flack, but he felt the urge to protect him regardless. Besides, he told himself, this man was a person of interest in the case. Nonetheless, he went to confront him alone.

Mac knocked on the door, but did not announce himself as police. He waited, and the door opened. A very tall man stood at the threshold, waiting patiently for an explanation. He had pitch black hair, slightly wavy but cut short and styled neatly, and smooth, clear olive skin. He had classically handsome features, wrought with an undeniable sensuality, and deep, cool green eyes framed with long black lashes. Mac had the odd impression that he had seen him before, but could not place where.

"Victor Brant?"

"Yes."

"Detective Mac Taylor, I'm with the NYPD Crime Lab. I came here to-"

"Mac Taylor," Victor echoed, amused. He threw the door open. "So you're Mac Taylor. Well, come in, Mac Taylor. I don't think we should do this in the hall."

Mac frowned, but entered the apartment. Victor shut the door behind him. The apartment was small, clean, and overflowing with reading material. Mac saw that the much of the material concerned criminal psychology, the law, and law enforcement.

"I'm assuming Detective Flack told you about me?"

"He did," Victor said. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"You know I didn't come here to chat, so cut the crap."

Victor crossed his arms, unaffected by the attitude. He sat on the arm of his sofa, watching Mac through narrowed eyes.

"It was Ragno, wasn't it?" Victor said knowingly. "He told you about me?"

"Yes, he did," Mac said. "He told me everything."

"The little weasel never did like me," Victor said. "I'm surprised that _you_ would be so judgmental of a man with exotic tastes."

"And just what does that mean?"

"Don Junior did tell me about you, _all _about you," Victor said. "It must be nice to get away with abuse of power and sexual harassment at the same time."

"Not any nicer than hurting people for a living, though?"

"I didn't 'hurt' your detective," Victor said. "He came to me for a service, and I provided it."

"And then you took him home to provide more 'services'?"

"Yes."

"He could barely sit down today, you know."

Victor smiled. "Well, let's just say he got his money's worth. Again, I can't see you having any problem with this."

"I do have a problem with it," Mac said tersely. "I also have a problem with the fact that after all your years working at the Eden of Desires club, you finally bring a client home with you, and that client just happens to be a cop."

"You can't be serious," Victor snorted. "Are you honestly trying to connect me with the recent cop killings? That I would have something to do with D3-ATS?"

"We haven't yet confirmed that they were hate crimes, or that D3-ATS was involved," Mac said. "You're well-informed."

Victor said nothing.

"And we know that you are involved with D3-ATS," Mac went on. "You registered on their forum a month ago."

"I did, or someone used my name and information to."

"You deny that you were the one that signed up?"

"I'm not confirming or denying it," Victor said. "I will deny that I am anti-gay, and I will deny that I am a serial killer. Now why don't you confirm for me … that you're not here because of any case."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you're here about Don," Victor said. "You aren't jealous per say, but you're used to looking after him. You take the responsibility of protecting a lot of people, don't you? The father figure type, always a classic."

"So is the self-loathing sexual sadist."

"I'm not self-loathing, I assure you," Victor said. "As for Donald Junior, don't worry about him. He's a big, capable boy, he can take care of himself."

"Obviously he can't, if he went home with you," Mac said. "Then again, you made sure his judgment was compromised, didn't you?"

"By the time I met him, he was already flying high, if you catch my meaning," Victor said. "Whatever other poor decisions he made last night, coming home with me wasn't one of them."

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for that?" Mac said. "A man whose real identity is still a mystery?"

Victor was silent.

"You use the name 'Victor Brant' at the Eden of Desires club, but that identity doesn't seem to have any other usage that we could find, or history of any kind prior to 2005," Mac said. "We are working on finding out who you really are, so don't expect to hide behind anonymity for much longer."

Victor did not react. His expression gave away nothing. People had remarked upon Mac's expert poker face, and seeing the same thing here, he hoped that his own expression did not make him look as soulless as Victor did.

"Who are you, Victor?" Mac asked. "What do you want from Detective Flack?"

"Don was an opportunity that I decided to take," Victor said. "I found him at the club reception desk, and he was obviously inebriated from alcohol and perhaps a narcotic. He was hassling Ragno, trying to set up an appointment with a male dom. I don't have to explain to you how attractive he is, I imagine?"

Mac's lips thinned into a tense line.

"Ragno warned Don Junior that I had a reputation for being rough, but he insisted on taking me up on my offer to get his appointment in before I left for the night," Victor recounted. He spoke with deliberation and care, the way a witness would when making a statement. "We took the elevator up to one of the fantasy rooms. I asked him what he wanted, but he only requested that I not tie him up."

Mac's expression hardened. _So Don did recall Fraser's murder, and he even knew that he was putting himself in a high-risk situation. How could he be aware of that and still be so stupid?_

"Donald Junior was nervous," Victor went on, an affectionate fondness creeping into his tone. "He was joking, being cynical, playing games. Not a man used to losing control of a situation. But games are only games. He came to the club to be punished, and so I punished him. Would you like the details of that?"

"That won't be necessary."

"I could tell that he was nervous, so I helped him undress, got him reasonably relaxed," Victor went on, regardless. "Contact is important with a new client. I put him over my knees. I have to admit, he got on my nerves."

"Why is that?"

"He laughed at me," Victor marveled. "Even thrown over my lap, he laughed at me, bold as brass. I couldn't believe it. So, I stopped going easy on him. I reminded him that he had come to me for a reason, that he must have done something to feel guilty. Between that and a leather paddle, he was finally subdued."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"The quickest way to avoid suspicion is to tell the truth. Don't you agree?"

"You sound like you've done this before."

"Once Don was thoroughly mastered," Victor went on, ignoring the remark, "he broke down a little. There are two kinds of subs: the kind that only gets aroused, and the kind that takes the discipline to heart and is chastened. Don is the latter. Now, I rarely get personally involved with comfort, but … I liked Don. I like him very much."

"And that was when he told you about his relationship with me?"

"He told me everything."

Mac tensed. "Everything?"

"Almost everything," Victor said. He noted Mac's reaction, eyes narrowing slightly. "I could tell he was holding something back, but he did tell me about all his recent losses: his sister, his lover, even his dog. Then, he told me that he thought he had found someone that he could have loved."

"He said that?"

"He said it," Victor said blandly. "You look pretty guilty yourself. So, it's true that you are taken. I had wondered whether Don had misinterpreted that or not. Good to know that he really is free."

"He isn't free for you."

"Yes, he is," Victor said. "I felt sorry for him when he told me. As unprofessional as it might have been, I didn't want to leave him alone that night. He was exhausted to the point of being dead on his feet, miserable and lonely. I offered to bring him home, and he agreed. I drove him here. He was tired, but up for a little more fun."

"You beat him again?"

"I spanked him a little, but it was just play by then," Victor said. "We had sex. He woke up late and wolfed down some breakfast. He rushed off to work. That's it."

"What time did he fall asleep last night?"

"Around three in the morning. By then, he was completely … spent."

"So, he wouldn't have woken up if you had left the apartment?"

The trace of emotion that had washed over Victor's face vanished instantly. His features were not hard, but entirely neutral. "I suppose not," he replied. "Why?"

"The second victim was murdered at four in the morning," Mac said. "He lived close enough to this area to give you time to leave Flack asleep and attack him."

"You're determined to link me to the case, aren't you?" Victor said, shaking his head. "Answer me this, Mac Taylor: if I had a homosexual cop in my own apartment, unconscious enough to let me have my way with him, why would I leave him, drive out to another apartment, break in, and kill someone else?"

"I don't know. Why would you?"

"I wouldn't."

"I think that you didn't dare make Don your next victim because you were seen together by Edmund Ragno," Mac said. "However, you brought him home to have one of the NYPD's best provide you with an alibi for the second murder. Then, you left him sleeping, and went to get rid of the next victim on your kill list."

"Kill list. Really."

"Really."

Victor smiled, getting to his feet. "I didn't have to tell you anything, Detective Taylor," he said. "Don was not on duty, he was not injured, he was not brought here without consent. You have absolutely no right to harass me about my relationship with him, professionally. Personally, I understand that you're his friend, and so I've done you the courtesy of volunteering information. But I won't stand here in my own home and be accused of being involved with this odious case. Therefor, I believe it's time for you to go now, Detective Taylor."

"You don't intend to stay away from him, do you?"

"Don? No, I don't."

The two men stared each other down. Mac did not like how difficult a time he was having reading Victor. While he was a man of science, he did normally have a knack for taking the measure of people. He could see nothing in Victor but hints of his personality, and he was not altogether certain that these flashes of humanity were not contrived. Was the fondness that stole into his voice at the mention of Flack an act? The only thing about Victor that Mac was certain of was that he was a hard case.

"Look, I can see how you could easily fit me into the profile of a monster," Victor said. "I admit that I am sadistic to some measure. I like to give men a taste of pain and humility. The feelings of control and power arouse me. But I have limits. If you're going to live a lifestyle like this, you have to know your limits, and be aware of how far they go."

"And just how far do your limits go?"

"Not as far as taking one of my employees unaware and beating them without their consent."

"You're telling me that your fantasies always involve consent?"

Victor licked his lips, smiled a little. "Do yours?" He leaned against the wall, looking Mac up and down. "This lifestyle is very much like the legal system, Detective: the rules have to be obeyed without question. I would no sooner lay a hand on someone without their consent than I would rape them. It's the same thing, you see. Which means that out of the two of us, you're the one that has already broken the rules."

Victor pushed off the wall with a foot. He walked up to Mac, looking down at him.

"You won't even acknowledge that you're also a sadist," Victor said. "Through all of this, you haven't once admitted that you know how it is. You won't even discuss what you did to Don four years ago. Doesn't that seem a bit 'self-loathing' to you?"

Mac felt a surge of anger. He did not trust himself to reply.

"Yes, Don told me what they call you," Victor said. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor. You have a military background. You've seduced two men that work with you. If this is a game of profiling, I would say yours is more akin to that of the D3-ATS killer."

"And you know a lot about profiling, do you?"

There was a flash of humor and something else (regret?) in Victor's eyes. Then, he moved past Mac, and opened the door. When he turned back to Mac, his face and eyes were as placid as ever.

"If that's everything, Detective Taylor?"

Mac stopped in front of him at the door. "You may not be willing to leave Don alone, but don't think that _I'm_ willing to leave _you_ alone, Mr. Brant- or whatever your name is."

"Investigate away, by all means."

"I will." Mac paused. "Maybe I already have."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I know you," Mac said. "I can't place you, but I could swear that I've seen you before."

"Let me know if you figure it out," Victor said. "Or tell Don. He'll be sure to mention it when I see him again, I'll bet."

Mac gave him one last scrutinizing look, and then walked out. The door shut behind him. Mac wasted no time in leaving the building. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the season.


	12. Chapter 12

**12**

**7:32 PM, January 14, 2010**

**Condemned Church, Bronx, New York**

The chant was on its third chorus.

"Don't-"

"Ask!"

"Don't-"

"Tell!"

"Don't-"

"SERVE!"

This was apparently the last repetition of the chant, which was shouted in the fashion of military training chants. A round of applause concluded the chant, with the occasional _'Hoo-rah!' _and _'God Bless America' _thrown in.

Don Flack crossed his arms, though he outwardly nodded and smiled along with the rest of the 'patriots' gathered for the D3-ATS meeting. He was oddly proud to be standing here, with the remnants of the pleasure and pain Victor had caused him lingering in his skin. It was like sneaking a comic book into a bible during Sunday church.

Flack surveyed the crowd with his eyes, while they were still too preoccupied with the opening ritual to notice any new members of the crowd. Everyone in urban settings were familiar with the typical media portrayal of the homophobic: close-minded rednecks, Republican politicians, overprotective fathers, or bored and neurotic housewives. The disturbing thing was that much of this crowd did not resemble those stereotypes at all. All Flack saw was a group of average New Yorkers of varying races and ages. They were people one passed in the supermarket, on the street. They were people that drove the taxis, swept the trash from the streets, managed high-end retail shops, served law enforcement, ran small businesses- they were everybody, and they could be anybody.

_Things may change, things may get better, but people sure as hell don't, _Flack thought bitterly. _Look at this. Catholics, Evangelists, Jews, Muslims, and who knows what. Religion would divide most of these people from each other, but here they are. Here they fucking are, united by hatred. Unbelievable. _

The condemned church's main room would have made Lucifer proud. All the stained glass windows had only shards of colored glass remaining in their frames, besides the boards nailed over them. The architecture was old and lavishly Gothic: even now, nose-less or ear-less cherubs and angels leered down at the assembled crowd. Most of the pews had been stolen, but a few rotten remnants of the wooden benches remained. The air smelled pungently of fungus and moisture and decay. It was, Flack thought, a murder scene of the soul.

Flack could never identify with these people, but he could see how a person already living in hatred could be swallowed up into evil in a place like this. Faith in humanity was a tenuous thing, something he often lost his grasp on, and it must be far too easy for some people to not only let it go, but cast it into the furnace of despair. He had seen his sister do that very thing, but she had turned the hatred inward. These people turned it outwards, blaming everyone else in the world but themselves for the state of this miserable world.

"Samantha," Flack murmured under his breath. He had not spoken her name in nearly a year, and it felt painfully foreign on his tongue. He shut his eyes, ignoring the miasma of ruin around him. "Samantha. Sam. God, Sam, help me."

The meeting leaders were taking their turns spewing their sermons of intolerance. It was nothing Flack hadn't heard before. He let the words float through his ears, though his mind filtered out whatever meaning the rest of the crowd intoned from them. As ugly as the words were, they used a religious justification that Flack knew the many would defend, as if free speech were not enough to shield these losers. Though he was devout enough, Don wished the churches would denounce this kind of cowardice. He wished no criminal could hide behind their God, using divinity to justify obvious cruelty.

_Or am I just ignoring God?_ Flack wondered. _No, no. I know the Bible. But it __**was **__written by men. Inspired by God, but written by men. Written by men that condemned the dark man, the gay man, any woman that said one word against her husband. If adulterers and men that murder in the name of their country can still claim they walk rightly with God, why can't I? I've done my best. I have. Do I really have to kill myself because I avenged Jess? Because I've lain with men? Am I ignoring God? Am I damned? More damned than these people? These people are just talking, most of them. I've really done things. Horrible things. I had reasons. These people hate for no reason. Who is more damned? Even if there was a God … I'm screwed for even thinking this, I know. But if God is there, how can He even say? If He has never lived as one of us, has never loved as one of us, has never suffered as one of us … how can He say who is damned and who is blessed?_

Flack pushed his reflections aside, and damned Catholic school as he did. He focused on the words of the speech, filing the detestable quotes away for later reference. More people had come in by now. Flack took another look around the crowd.

Flack's heart skipped a beat. Victor Brant was standing at the back of the room, listening to the speech intently. Flack's body tensed, his body awash with pain. Mac's voice echoed back to him, wrought with worry and anger: _'He's a suspect, Don!'_

Don briskly made his way through the crowd. He presented himself in front of Victor, whose mouth quirked. Flack grabbed him by the arm. Victor looked irritated, but he followed him outside the abandoned church.

"You really are a part of this?" Flack asked. He hit Victor's chest. "ARE YOU!?"

Flack's voice echoed up and down the street. Victor blew out a sigh, his breath fogging in the cold night air. He crossed his arms, facing Flack down with narrowed eyes.

"Don … Stop." Victor caught Flack by his wrists. "STOP!"

Flack struggled, but Victor was able to restrain him.

"Why?" Don asked. "I thought you … I thought we … "

"We did," Victor said softly. He pulled Flack closer by the wrists he held. "I _am_. Shh. Be quiet. Don, hey! Be quiet!"

Victor released one arm, and ran his freed hand through Don's hair. Don jerked his head away.

"I'm not one of these assholes," Victor said in a low voice. "Believe me, Donald Junior-"

"DON'T _CALL _ME THAT!" Flack roared. The loud outburst even surprised him, and he paused to get a grip on himself. He bowed his head, and looked back up at Victor. "If you're not a part of D3-ATS, then why the hell are you here?"

"Because I'm working," Victor admitted. "Keep your voice down, would you? Come here."

Victor guided him to the side of the church. They could still hear the rambling nonsense speeches going on inside. Don hit the brick wall with a fist, but his temper was cooling.

"Working?" Don repeated. "How? What is it exactly that you do?"

"I'm a private investigator," Victor explained. "My name isn't 'Victor Brant'. 'Brant' was my grandmother's maiden name. I only use it for doing business with the Eden of Desires club. And while I do enjoy freelancing there, my sole purpose for doing it is to get information."

"I don't believe this," Don said, rubbing his nose. It was red from the cold. "So who are you, Victor? Is it even 'Victor'?"

"It is right now," Victor said. "Victor Shain."

"We meet again," Flack said dryly. "What do you mean 'right now'?"

"I've had to go through different aliases throughout my life," Victor said. "I know how that sounds, Don, but you have to trust me."

"How can I?" Flack asked angrily. "You lied to me about everything!"

"I've been working," Victor said. "I don't operate like the NYPD. I don't have to declare myself. And you're not one to talk, sneaking into this meeting, might I add."

"What are you even working on?"

Victor considered. He blew out a sigh, and came to a decision. He put a hand on Don's shoulder and brought him closer. He lowered his voice considerably.

"I knew Alan Fraser."

"Oh, great, just wonderful," Flack grumbled. "That's not suspicious at all."

Victor gave him a look that sharply reminded Flack of last night. Flack glowered, but stopped complaining.

"I was aware of Fraser, because we had met during a case a few years ago," Victor said. "I crossed paths with Fraser. The three of us were friendly. I would sometimes run into Fraser while working. I even helped him a few times with cases, given my knowledge of certain social circles and organizations."

"Kind of convenient, you being close with Fraser," Flack said. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"Yes, the man who hired me," Victor said. "Robert Jans."

"_Jans _hired you?"

"He called me minutes after you and Detective Messer left his apartment," Victor said. "He hired me to find out who killed Alan. He was very distraught. He wanted revenge at first, but I talked him down from that. I said that I would find the killer if I could, and make a citizen's arrest."

"Really."

"I'm not a murderer, Don," Victor said. "Not any more than you are."

"Yeah? Well, you don't know me," Don said. "And I know you even less. How can I believe you?"

"Call Jans and talk to him," Victor said. He took Don by the shoulders. Don was rigid. "We've been doing business for years. Come on, Don, you can't think that I would suddenly kill his boyfriend? Or that I would be capable of these hideous crimes?"

"I don't know what to believe," Flack said. "Why did you bring me home? You're telling me that was a coincidence?"

"It wasn't," Victor said. He hesitated. "Don, you have to realize how suspicious you looked last night."

"Suspicious? What do you-" Realization lit on Flack's face. "You thought _I _was the killer?!"

"You fit the profile," Victor said. "In law enforcement, suddenly wracked with guilt, bi-curious. You were drunk, possibly drugged."

"Yeah, I had the CSI lab test me under the radar earlier," Flack said, frowning deeply. "There was hydrocodone/paracetamol in my system. Vicodin. You sure you didn't drug me?"

"You know that I didn't," Victor said, equally worried. "Think back. Weren't you already feeling drugged?"

"Come to think of it, yeah, that's why I went walking to the club," Flack said. "I've been having a hard time lately, but not _that_ hard. I felt completely, I don't know … out of character. It was weird."

"Vicodin combined with the alcohol in your system, that would do it," Victor said. "Who would drug you?"

"I don't know," Flack said. "I'm sure as hell going to find out, though. Anyway, when did you realize that I'm not a psychotic serial murderer? Or do you still think it's possible that I am?"

"It was when you were crying." Victor smiled, taking Don's face into his hands. "Your confession made it pretty clear that if you had taken an innocent life, the guilt probably would have driven you to suicide. You aren't the type, Don."

Don looked doubtful. "I've killed before."

"You've killed an innocent person in cold blood before?"

"No!"

"See what I mean?" Victor laughed, caressing Don's cheek with a finger. "I know people, Don. Part of my life's work has been learning how to read them. I could tell that you weren't a killer. When I realized that, I got worried for you. I thought that you might have been targeted by the killer, or would be soon if you kept on the way you were going. That's why I brought you home with me."

"That's the only reason?"

Victor's fingers moved down to trace Don's lips. "Well, not the _only_ reason."

"So you thought I was the killer, and then Mac thought you were the killer-"

"I know," Victor said. "I had a visit from your Mac Taylor earlier today."

"You did?"

"He came around my apartment," Victor said. "He tried to hide it, but he was very worried about you. I'll have to trust you to let him know that I don't have any hard feelings."

"Heh."

"How about you?" Victor asked. "Do you have any hard feelings?"

Flack snickered, looking Victor up and down. "Honestly, a few."

Victor laughed, pulling him into a kiss. Flack wavered, but kissed him back finally.

"We probably shouldn't do that around this meeting," Victor said. He gave Flack's forehead a kiss, then pushed him back reluctantly. "We should also go back in there."

"I can't let you interfere with an investigation."

"You run your investigation, I'll run mine, but I don't see why we can't trade notes," Victor said. He turned Flack towards the opening of the alley, murmuring into his ear, "Play nice, would you, good boy?"

"I wish you wouldn't-" Flack jumped as Victor gave him a swat through his coat. "-call me that."

Victor chuckled, tousled his hair, and then strode past him. "Wait a few minutes before coming in, and make it look like you were on the phone. Don't want to look too close in there, do we?"

"No," Flack murmured, though Victor was already gone. He licked his lips, stared at his hands. "No, we don't."

* * *

Victor and Don kept a respectful distance from each other for the duration of the D3-ATS meeting. When the speeches were over, they canvassed the room, shaking hands and exchanging names. It chilled Don to think that at any given moment, he might touch hands with the man who had murdered Alan Fraser and John Lazaro. He would have sold his soul for hand sanitizer.

As the crowd was dispersing, Flack had the displeasure of running into Tim Gorecki. He forced himself to smile and compliment the meeting. They chatted about it for a little while.

"It just sucks there were no drinks this time," Gorecki lamented. "Usually McCullen brings beers."

Flack's wandering attention snapped back to his colleague. "McCullen? The owner of McCullen's Avenue Tavern?"

"Yeah, him," Gorecki said. "He doesn't always make it to the meetings, but when he does, he always brings beers. Sometimes food. Ever since the murders, the meetings have been quieter, though. The party's over, and the war is on."

"That it is, my friend," Flack agreed, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Listen, I'll catch up with you tomorrow, all right?"

"Yeah, see you around, brother."

Gorecki patted his back. Flack's fist trembled. He was looking around for Victor, when a man caught his eye. He wore a cap that fell clear over his brow line, and there was no hair on his neck. He remembered Hawkes describing the medical condition that caused total hairlessness. Don turned and came over to the guy, under the guise of asking for a cigarette.

"Sorry, man, I don't smoke."

"Okay, no problem."

Flack lingered by the man, leaning against the wall. The cap hid his brows, if he had any, and his face was completely smooth. He was Flack's height, with broad features and pale skin that was broken into red bumps at the base of his neck. His eyes were dark, inky blue, and they were what Flack thought of as butcher's eyes: the eyes of a man that killed frequently and thoughtlessly, treating humans as nothing more than animals to be put down.

"I heard there's no beers tonight," Flack said. "Figures the one night I finally get to come to a meeting, it's a dry one."

The man grunted. Flack noticed that he was trying to move subtly away from him, as if he was afraid Flack was contagious. Flack rubbed his nose, but it was no longer running. Did he look sick?

"You been D3-ATS long?"

The man met Flack's eyes. The coldness seeped from his eyes through his entire being. Hardened as he was, Flack always hated looking into eyes like those.

"Longer than you, newbie."

With that, the man shoved past Flack, his shoulder bumping him rudely. Flack made a mental sketch of his features, fully intending to have the CSI team mock up a depiction. They had found people with less, using their high-tech wizardry.

"I don't know about you, but I'm ready to ditch this place."

Flack looked around to find that Victor had come up behind him.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's get as far away from this place as possible. You drive here?"

"Yeah. We'll take separate cars. I'll follow you."

"Oh you will, will you?"

Victor smiled. "Notes to compare, remember?"

They left the meeting. Surely enough, Victor's car pulled out after Flack's, and tailed him down the street. Though he generally believed that Victor was innocent, Flack was still grateful to see that Victor drove a car completely unlike the killer's: a silver Honda Accord.

Flack dialed Mac's number on instinct to report, but then canceled the call. He was still angry with the CSI boss, and did not want to speak to him. Instead, he called Danny.

"_Messer."_

Flack switched the phone to a bluetooth unit. He fumbled to get it on his ear, scowling in annoyance.

"Yeah, Danny? It's Flack."

"_Uh, hi, Don. Need something?"_

Don could tell from the worried sympathy in his voice that Mac must have told him about their elevator confrontation. His hands tightened on the wheel.

"Danny, I'm just getting out of the D3-ATS meeting. Some developments here. I think I might have put eyes on our guy. I'll be coming down to the CSI lab to see if you guys can make a composite sketch on your computer."

"_Right, great. We've got to nail this bastard soon."_

"Something else that needs to be checked out, though. Apparently, McCullen is a member of D3-ATS."

"_McCullen from the bar?"_

"The same. I think you should have some guys go down and talk to him."

"_Will do. You all right there, Don?"_

"I'm fine, Danny."

"_Okay. I'll see you in the lab."_

"See you."

The call ended. Flack glanced back at Victor's car. He did not like the idea of bringing Victor by the CSI building, but there was no way to avoid it. Besides, Mac would have to learn the truth about Victor Shain at some point. No time like the present.

* * *

**8:37 PM, January 14, 2010**

**CSI Building**

It did not bode well that Stella and Danny did a double-take when they saw Victor. Flack cursed Mac. At least, however, the gossiper in question was nowhere to be seen. Many of the lab techs were gone, having a drink in their fellow tech Lazaro's name, doubtless. The thought that they might be doing it at McCullen's made Flack's blood run cold.

Victor waited while Flack went to speak to Stella in one of the labs. With Mac gone, she would be the one in charge. She glanced through the glass wall at Victor. They were at an angle that Victor could not see them.

"Hey, Don, how are you?"

More sympathy. Don bristled. "Fine."

"Is that him?" Stella asked. "Is that the guy?"

"What guy?"

Stella smirked, giving Flack's bottom a slap. He stared at her in shock. Stella said pointedly, "_The _guy."

"I'm gonna kill Mac," Flack growled, blushing. "Has he been entertaining the entire lab with stories about my personal life?"

"Relax, he was only venting," Stella said. "You scared the hell out of him, Don. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not here to chat, Stella," Flack said irritably. "I want to do a composite sketch of the bald guy I saw at the meeting. You gonna help me, or what?"

Stella nodded, all business. "Right. Come on."

Soon, Flack, Stella, Victor, and Adam Ross were settled around a computer. Flack described the man in the hat's features, and Adam put together a computer-generated sketch from the description. The process took time, so Victor went to the other side of the lab to find a chair to wait in. Stella followed him.

"So. You're Victor Brant."

"Victor Shain, actually," Victor introduced himself with a smile. He extended a hand. "Private investigator."

"Wait, what?"

Victor waited, hand extended.

"Oh, Stella Bonasera," Stella said quickly, shaking his hand. "You're a PI?"

"I am," Victor said. "I've been working this case, but I figured that since we're all on the same side here, it was okay to break cover a little."

"You're working this case? Who hired you?"

"Robert Jans."

"Oh my God," Stella breathed. She took the chair opposite Victor's. "So _that's_ why you were so close-lipped."

"I had a lot to consider," Victor said. "At one point, I thought Flack might have been the killer. It even crossed my mind that your own Mac Taylor fit the profile. I needed time to think before deciding to come clean. I apologize for any confusion I've caused."

"How did Don take all of this?"

Victor glanced over at him, considering. "Well, time will tell. He was angry at first, but he seems to have forgiven me. Which he should, given the fact that I probably saved his life last night."

"You really think the killer targeted him?" Stella asked. "But that doesn't make any sense. Don hasn't even been with a man, to anyone's knowledge. He's been mourning a girlfriend."

"There are no secrets in this city," Victor told her. "I know that more than anyone. If Don is a target, you should work backwards to the point where his secret was exposed, and see who was around to find it out."

"Believe me, we will."

Victor looked around. The light hit his faded olive eyes. They were remote, but Stella thought there was a well of buried pain in their depths. She took the opportunity to appraise him. There was something about the shape of his face and ears that reminded her of Mac, along with the similar eye color. He was darker, though, and she would have guessed several years younger, closer to Flack's age. He had the leanness of a man in good physical shape. His hands were quite large, which Stella supposed came in handy given his fetish. His features were straight and handsome, with a stately nose, just a touch long, that gave him a Roman appearance. He had matured into a hardness of feature, but bore no wrinkles save a smattering of thin crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His mouth was down-turned, not in a habit of smiling, but she had seen a glimpse of straight white teeth when he spoke. When he did smile, Stella would bet that it was a sight to see.

_Flack is a lucky man, _Stella thought. _If this Victor Shain really __**isn't**__ a closet psychotic, that is._

"You do well for a PI," Stella remarked, looking from his coat to his shoes. Cashmere, Italian leather, and she could not name the cologne, but she could tell an expensive one when she smelled it.

"Lifestyles of the rich and famous often include people in my trade," Victor said. "I'm very good at my job."

Stella stared at him. "Why do I think I know you?"

Victor held eye contact without so much as a blink, but Stella saw something in him shift beneath the surface. He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, and said simply, "I have one of those faces."

"Mac mentioned having the same feeling, so you must."

Victor made a sound of acknowledgment, but did not comment. Mac had told her about that habit of his, too. He had described it as 'infuriating'.

"You won't hurt him, will you?"

The question slipped out without Stella's consent. She had been pondering him, and his inscrutability had prompted it. Victor's face shifted into something approaching warmth, and he looked in Don's direction again.

"I would never hurt Don," Victor replied earnestly. "I wasn't looking to get close to anyone. I'm a busy man, I don't lead the kind of lifestyle that lends itself to serious relationships. Don sort of fell my way, but I guess it's true that you can't help who you lo- Who you end up caring for."

Stella smiled a knowing smile. "You're falling in love with him, aren't you?"

For the first time, Victor looked startled. He opened his mouth, but Mac entered the lab at that moment. Victor and Stella stood. Mac's gaze fell on Victor and his face darkened.

"What is he doing in my lab?"

Don looked around. "Hey, Mac. Look, it's only for a minute, I had to come in here and get this sketch done. Victor's not who you think he is, anyway. We're all on the same side here."

"Whatever he is, he's still a civilian in a lab that handles vital evidence," Mac retorted. "And I still want him out."

"Come on, Mac, you don't have to be like that."

"Don't you tell me how I have to be."

Victor was buttoning his coat. "It's all right, Don. I'll go."

"I'll escort you out, Mr. Brant," Mac said icily. "Or should I say, _Mr. Shain_?"

Mac and Victor left the lab. Don was troubled, but he resumed the work of finding the hat man with Adam. Stella gave his shoulder a squeeze, and went back to her office.

"So, you found me out," Victor said once he was alone in the elevator with Mac. "I'm assuming you know what I do and why I've been involved with this case?"

"Yes, providing that your motives are what you say they are," Mac said. "I also know who you really are, Michael Victor Riese."

Victor inhaled sharply, shutting his eyes. "And how did you manage _that_?"

"I remembered why you looked so familiar to me," Mac said. "When you mentioned profiling, the comment stuck with me. It took some thinking, but I finally figured out why that word triggered my memory of you. You wrote articles _about _profiling, after all, back when you were working with the FBI."

"I wrote the majority of those articles before I even joined the FBI," Victor said. "Back when I was earning my PHD in criminal psychology. They recruited me before I had even completed it, years before."

"You were young, brilliant, one of the whiz kids the FBI was trying to use to inject a modern sensibility into the Bureau," Mac said. "You did earn that PHD. You also helped put away any number of high-profile serial murderers."

"And then I failed," Victor said flatly. "One of the worst child rapist/murderers in the history of the country, and I failed to catch him. That was when I quit."

"I always wondered about that."

Victor's face was blank, _too _blank. Mac was beginning to realize that Victor's 'tell' was precisely nothing, and that was a tell in and of itself.

"You publicly resigned from the Bureau, apologized to the families of the victims, and you even wrote the infamous 'Study in Futility' article that was published in all the forensics journals," Mac recounted. "By all appearances, you were burnt out."

"I was."

"Were you?" Mac looked at him. "You see, there were some things about that case that never added up for me. For one, all of the families thanked you for your work. Not a single person condemned you for a failure, or even went after the Bureau."

"You're pretty cynical, if you expect everyone in the world to blame the system for tragedy."

"When the system fails, it _does_ get the blame, every single time," Mac pointed out. "People want justice. The families of the victims don't say 'thanks for trying' and just go on. You know that."

"They were kind people."

"Right," Mac said cynically. "Then, there is the fact that you did and still do, apparently, call yourself a failure. You speak of it freely, but there is no remorse in your eyes. You're the profiler, you tell me what that means."

"What do _you _think it means, Mac Taylor?"

"Well- And don't take this personally, because I thought this long before I ever expected to meet you," Mac assured him. "I've always had a theory that you did find the man responsible for those crimes. I believe you meted out your own kind of justice, and that you told the families."

"You have quite an imagination, Mac Taylor," Victor said. "You should write crime fiction, if you have any free time."

"That isn't a denial."

"And your theory isn't based on concrete evidence."

Mac cracked a small smile. "I'll give you that."

Victor pressed the stop button, and the elevator came to a halt. Mac was beginning to think that he should start taking the stairs.

"You hit him."

Mac braced himself for an argument. "What?"

"I saw a mark on his cheek when we met at the D3-ATS meeting," Victor said. "That was you?"

"Yes," Mac admitted. "If you really are following this case, then you'll know what a risk Don took with his behavior yesterday night."

"I brought him to my _home_ because I thought he was in danger," Victor said. "So, yes, I understand your frustration. But Don was drugged out of his right mind, and he was emotional- thanks to _you_."

"I understand that, but he's been doing this all year."

"Don't touch him again."

Mac raised his eyebrows. It was quietly spoken, but there was no question that this was an order, not a request. Victor pressed the elevator button again, and they resumed moving.

"Are you threatening a police officer?"

Victor did not reply.

"Don isn't like you, Victor," Mac told him. "I don't know what you see in him, but it isn't what you think."

"And what do you think that I think?" Victor asked, staring at Mac. " … You know, don't you?"

"Know what?"

"Whatever it is that Don feels guilty over," Victor said. "The last thing, the one sin he didn't confess to me. I knew there was something, and I have a good idea as to what it is. Now I know that you're also aware of it."

This time, Mac was the one that did not reply.

"I don't know Don the way you do," Victor said. "I recognize that. But despite my need for control, despite my methods, despite everything, I'm not out to change him. I l- I like him just the way I met him. I would never compromise who he is. You're the one who's made a habit out of bullying your people."

"Mr- What are you using? Shain?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Shain, all due respect, but you don't know me," Mac said. "You don't know my team, and you hardly know Don."

"I know that he isn't yours," Victor said intently. "I know that you would be out of a job if Don were not so loyal to you. I know that you take advantage of your personal friendships with your team. I know that Don may be too blinded by you to call you on your crap, and I also know that _I _am not."

Mac had to admit that he was impressed by Victor's protectiveness. Perhaps he wasn't as bad for Don as he had thought. The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"It was a mistake," Mac said. "Hitting him."

"You make a lot of those with Don, don't you?" Victor remarked. "If you've decided who you want, then stand by it. Leave Don to me."

"Are you done?"

Victor walked out of the elevator, though he leaned between the doors, holding them open. "That depends. Are you and Don done?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then I've said all I had to." Victor turned his back on him, walking through the garage. "Oh, and Mac," he called without looking back, "you should probably apologize to him. Loose ends and all that."

* * *

"Yeah, I think we've finally got it."

Adam rubbed his face, relieved. "Okay. Done." He pressed a few keyboard buttons. "Now! Let's run this through facial recognition and see what we get."

Flack leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up. Mac was there, looking more subdued than was his usual. He nodded in the direction of his office. Flack got up and followed him into it.

"Don, I owe you an apology."

Don had been expecting a lecture, and was completely thrown by this. He still had enough pride to accept it, however. He lifted his head and said, "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

"You and I have had a … _unique_ relationship, and I've allowed that fact to blur the lines between the personal and the professional," Mac said. "Four years ago, I told myself that I was having a joke, that I would just scare and embarrass you a little. I lied to myself, and I crossed lines that I never should have. There has been unresolved sexual tension between us since then, and I was a fool to ignore it. Given our closeness over the past few days, and the way this case has been affecting me- I don't have any excuse for it, but I realize that I snapped, and I took it out on you. I want to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."

Don smiled. "Thank you for that. I mean it, I … I do respect you, Mac. I respect you a lot. And I want you to respect me. I didn't think that was possible, and the way I've been acting, I didn't think I even deserved it anymore. I've screwed up a lot of things, too. But I'm good now. I'm just glad I didn't screw up with you _too _bad."

"That could never happen, Don," Mac said. "I don't say it often enough, but you're an excellent detective, and an even better man. Whatever you've gone through, whatever you've done, it doesn't change those basic facts. I knew you would get through this rough patch. I only … What can I say? You scared the hell out of me."

"This case is scaring the hell out of everybody," Flack said. "I know how it must have looked. I was high, had spent the night out of all contact, with a stranger. Believe me, when I found out I was drugged, _I _was terrified."

"About that," Mac said. "Danny and Lindsay briefed me about what you found out at the D3-ATS meeting. I sent them to McCullen's. Do you think you were drugged there?"

"Yeah, that seems the most likely," Flack said. "I only started feeling weird after I had the couple drinks there."

"That also explains how the killer knew about you and I," Mac said. "Danny followed me during lunch yesterday. We were talking, and he mentioned it. McCullen must have overheard."

"Yeah." Don paused. "But something doesn't fit about this whole timeline. McCullen was with us the whole night Fraser was killed, serving drinks. He couldn't have killed Fraser. Besides, it had to be the bald guy, because he had alo- alopeeta-"

"Alopecia universalis," Mac corrected him.

"Right, that bald disease thing," Flack said. "Your lab said the killer having that would explain why not a single hair was found, and the medicated cream trace."

"But if both men are a part of the same organization-"

"McCullen could be informing the bald guy about possible targets, right," Flack said. "But the drugs?"

"Neither Fraser nor Lazaro had any traces of narcotic in their systems," Mac said. "However, given the struggle that Lazaro put up, it's possible that the killer has decided not to take any more chances."

"So he has McCullen drug me, and waits until my apartment lights go out," Flack said. "So he knows I'm asleep. But I couldn't sleep last night, so he never got the chance. I went out, went walking, and he wouldn't have known that I wasn't armed. Then I went to the club, and I wasn't alone again for the rest of that night."

"It really is possible that Victor saved your life by taking you home with him," Mac admitted. "You know that, right?"

"I know," Don said gravely. "And I swear to God, Mac, this is the end of my meltdown. I _don't _want to die, and I sure as hell never want to be put in that position again. I went to the D3-ATS meeting and saw all those hateful people … No. I'm _not_ going to go down like that."

"There's the Don Flack that I know," Mac said, smiling in relief. "Good to have you back, Don."

"Yeah, it's good to be back."

Mac's phone rang. "Hold on a second," he told Don. He picked it up. "Taylor."

The good spirits in the room dissipated as Mac listened to the call. Horror washed over his face. Flack caught the mood, and his heart twisted in his chest. To his astonishment, the phone slid out of Mac's hand. It clattered on the desk between them. Mac leaned both arms on the top of the desk, bowing his head.

"What?" Flack asked, not particularly anticipating the answer. "Mac, what is it?"

"It's-" Mac was having difficulty breathing. He lifted his head, his eyes dazed and dark. "It's Danny. Oh God, Don, it's Danny."

"Danny?" Flack asked, his voice raising. "Is he-"

"He's in the hospital," Mac said. He stumbled for his coat. "I have to go."

"I'll go with you," Flack said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We'll all go with you."


	13. Chapter 13

**13**

**9:00 PM, January 14, 2010**

**McCullen's Avenue Tavern**

"I can't believe it," Danny muttered to Lindsay as they got out of the car. "So many of us CSI and the local cops have been drinking here for years. McCullen has always seemed like a stand-up guy. How could we miss it?"

"People hide a lot of things, Danny," Lindsay said. "You never start out assuming the worst."

"Maybe we should start out assuming it," Danny said miserably. "I mean, this guy has been looking at Mac and me this whole time, thinking we're some kind of perversion of nature. He's seen us living and laughing, he's talked to us, and meanwhile he's just standing there wallowing in disgust of us. It's creepy."

"It is," Lindsay agreed. "You can't take what these bastards think personally, though, Danny. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do, but it still pisses me off," Danny said. "Lindsay, um, we have to have a talk. After we finish here, okay? There are some things I need to tell you."

"Okay. Yeah."

Danny gave her a smile, and then his face hardened. They entered the bar together. Sean McCullen was behind the counter like always. He was wiping the bar down with a rag. He glanced up when they came in, but thought nothing of it. He continued polishing the wood counter. Lindsay had never noticed McCullen as anything more than set dressing of his place, perpetual and stoic as the bar itself. Now she saw that he was a hefty man with thick, burly arms. His face was thin and deeply creased into severity, framed by long, stringy black hair. His eyes were brown, and seldom met anyone directly.

"Mr. McCullen?"

McCullen grunted, "Can I get you something?"

"Yeah, you can," Danny said. "You can get us some information about your little hate group there. D3-ATS?"

McCullen paused, and set the rag down slowly. He stood back from the counter, looking from Danny to Lindsay. Danny unfastened the strap holding his gun in its holster. A tiny voice in the back of his mind was begging McCullen to give him a reason to shoot him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

It was probably the most words Danny or Lindsay had heard their bartender speak at once. He had a faint Irish accent.

"Cut the crap, all right?" Danny said harshly. "We know you're registered at the D3-ATS forum. We know you've supplied the meetings with beer. We know what you are, McCullen, and we know what your friend is, too. Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

McCullen looked between them both, crossed his arms.

"What do you want to know, princess?"

Danny twitched. Lindsay eyed him nervously. Though Danny did a good job at being a rational CSI, he had a wildly impetuous streak that surfaced whenever he was emotional.

"I want to know why you drugged Detective Flack, asshole," Danny said evenly. His blue eyes were dark as they met McCullen's. He leaned an arm on the counter, glaring up at the taller bartender. "What was he, your next target? You heard Mac and I talking about him? What?"

"Flack … Tch," scoffed McCullen. He had the expression of someone that has swallowed feces. "Now why would anyone target him, when there's you and your fuck buddy, Taylor?"

Danny's face did not change, but Lindsay saw his eyes blazing. McCullen turned his hard brown eyes on her, and Lindsay did her best to set her features into as hard a mask as Danny was wearing.

"You heard the news yet, darlin'?" McCullen asked her. The Irish accent had thickened, as the anger in his voice broke all his pretenses down. "Do you know this sinner you've been whoring yourself to has gone back to his gay sweetheart?"

Lindsay's heart jumped, and Danny gave her a pale, mortified look. Despite the emotions whirling inside her, Lindsay managed to keep them from touching her face.

"I know that," she said steadily. Her heart pounded in her ears. "Things don't work out sometimes. We're all adults."

"And there's a brave face if ever I've seen one, lass," chuckled McCullen. "But you don't fool me. Your half-a-man was in here earlier, tellin' his boyfriend that he'd told Flack to stay away from him. More the fool you," he added to Danny, "thinking that Taylor or any other fag would be loyal. Perverted in one way, perverted in them all, eh?"

"That why you called my family?" Danny asked. "Is that why you told them those things about me? WAS IT!?"

McCullen was not affected by the outburst. "Yeah, it is," he said blandly. He put up his hands innocently. "I'm not the one who lied to them, though, am I?"

"That's it. I'm taking you in."

McCullen grinned, his teeth white but crooked. Everything else happened at once. The hands he had been holding up shot down behind him. Danny drew his gun. Glass bottles flew, and Lindsay ducked out of the way. A shot went off, glass shattered. When Lindsay looked up again, both McCullen and Danny were gone.

Lindsay looked around wildly. McCullen had flung two large bottles of liquor at them. Danny had shot at McCullen, and most likely grazed him, due to the blood splatter behind the bar. The door to the kitchen was swinging open and shut.

Lindsay jumped over the bar and burst through the door. She ran through the kitchens, startling the couple of late night workers. She followed the blood trail, running as fast as she could, until she banged out the back door into an alley. Darkness flooded her eyes, and she shut them for a brief moment to rid them of their reliance on the kitchen's fluorescent lights.

When she looked towards the end of the alley, she saw everything. Danny was running after McCullen, gun drawn. It was a one-way alley, and Danny stopped to aim his weapon.

"NYPD! FREEZE!"

McCullen turned on his boot heels, and dropped into a crouch. He was amazingly fast, much too fast for Danny to re-aim before he had drawn his own weapon. Lindsay unholstered her gun and moved towards them, but her motions felt so slow that she may as well have been underwater.

A shot rang through the alley. Lindsay saw Danny fall out of the corner of her eye. Her body moved on its own, aiming towards McCullen. She tried to identify herself, but the words stuck in her throat.

McCullen saw her. His head darted around wildly, and then he jumped. He was tall, and just managed to reach a fire escape ladder. Lindsay readjusted her aim upwards, and let off a shot. She heard the pang of it ricocheting off the fire escape. McCullen pulled down the ladder, climbed it, and then he was running upwards. Lindsay aimed, but she knew she would not get a clear shot. She whipped out her phone and called for backup, rushing towards Danny.

Lindsay's hand tightened on her phone. She dropped to her knees. They scraped through her jeans, burning and hot pain, but she did not notice.

"This- This is Lindsay Monroe, I have an officer down, I need rescue!" she shouted into her phone. Tears stung at her eyes as the shock wore away to panic. "Did you hear me!? I need help! We need- Oh God … Danny … Danny? DANNY!"

Danny coughed, moving. Lindsay set the phone down and her hands flew to him. Helplessly, she searched for the bullet wound.

"Danny? Hey, it's me," Lindsay said, trying to smile. "Danny? Can you hear me?"

"Aw God," Danny sputtered. His hands were clasped to his side, and his face wrung into folds of pain. "M-Montana?"

"Yeah," Lindsay affirmed, smiling despite herself. "It's me. Danny, it's me."

"Lindsay." Danny's eyes were hazy, but managed to meet hers. He reached a hand up, and she squeezed it. "Lindsay. I'm sorry. I should've told you. You-" He choked, swallowed. "You deserved better than that."

"I don't care," Lindsay told him. She broke into sobs, hot tears streaming down her face, turning the cold night sticky and hot. "Listen to me, Danny, I don't care. I love you, it doesn't matter, I love you, I always will. Danny, just hold on, okay? Help's coming."

"I can't … I can't feel my legs, Montana. Why can't I feel my legs?"

"Danny, you've been shot, just don't move," Lindsay said, though she shot his legs a worried glance. "Shh. It's okay, baby, just stay still. Just stay still."

"Tell Mac-"

"I'm not going to tell Mac anything!" Lindsay shouted, her voice shrill. "You tell him! You're going to tell him whatever you need to. Because you're going to be _fine_, Danny, do you hear me? You're going to be fucking fine!"

Danny smiled weakly. "Never heard you … talk like that before … Montana."

Montana laughed, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She clutched Danny's hand more tightly, hitting the side of his face lightly with her other hand. "Wake up. Wake up, Danny! Don't you dare fall asleep on me! Do you hear me? Don't you fall asleep!"

Lindsay bowed her head, burying her face in her chest. "Don't you ever leave me, Danny. Not now. Oh God, please, not now."

* * *

**10:00 PM, January 14, 2010**

**Lenox Hill Hospital**

Stella found Lindsay Monroe in the hospital chapel. Lindsay's hands were still stained with Danny's blood, and Stella instinctively fingered the small gold cross she wore. No coherent words formed on her lips, but a feeling of prayer washed through her. A prayer for Danny, and for Lindsay. A prayer for Mac, who she had last seen in a state of shock in the hospital hallway. Day to day, of course you appreciated your friends, but if you did not take their continued existence for granted, fearing their inevitable end would drive you insane. It was in moments like these when you saw their true worth, and what it would mean to lose them.

Stella sat down beside Lindsay, crossing herself. They stared in silence together, at nothing, at everything their mind's eye brought forward from memory.

"His smile."

Lindsay looked at Stella, sniffing, trying to focus. "What?"

"I keep trying to think about things Danny has said, or cases he's contributed to, but all I keep thinking about is his smile," Stella said. "Damn him. He could be infuriating, could have been driving you insane the entire year, but you couldn't help falling for that smile just a bit."

"Yeah," Lindsay laughed. She wiped her eyes. "God, Stella … I'd give anything to see him smile like that again."

Stella smiled, but Lindsay's face crumbled. She stared at her hands.

"Even if it's not meant for me."

"What do you mean?"

Lindsay met her eyes. "He's gone back to Mac, hasn't he?"

"Oh, Lindsay-"

"No." Lindsay managed to dry her eyes. She took a breath and let it out, eyes searching the chapel. "Danny isn't dead. He's not going to die. There's no need to turn Danny Messer into a saint yet."

Stella chuckled. "If one ever could."

"That … monster McCullen mentioned it, trying to hurt me," Lindsay explained. "I wouldn't listen to a freak like that usually, but … but the look Danny gave me … Besides, the way he's been so distant these past few days. He has gone back to Mac, hasn't he? You're Mac's best friend. You know, don't you?"

Stella bowed her head. Her mass of curly brown hair hid her face for a moment. "Lindsay, I … " She met Lindsay's gaze fully. "I encouraged it."

Lindsay's eyes widened. She looked at her hands again. "Wow."

"I was trying to spare you this- exactly this," Stella said. "I didn't want Danny or Mac lying to themselves. I'm sorry. Mac was right about one thing: it was none of my business."

"I don't blame you, Stella," Lindsay said. "But … "

"What is it?"

"Do you think it's completely over for us?" Lindsay asked. "I mean, I know Danny cares about me. You can't fake everything he's- Well, I know. I know we've had something. Do you really think it's impossible for us to ever have a chance again?"

"Nothing is impossible," Stella said. "But Lindsay, you weren't here in the early days. I've seen Mac through most of his relationship with Danny. It's, ah … It's deep."

"But things change. Right?"

"Lindsay, why are you-"

The chapel doors opened. Lindsay and Stella turned. Flack and Victor beckoned them over.

"The doctor is talking to Mac," Flack said. "We should go down there."

"Yeah." Lindsay drew a deep breath. "Yeah. Let's go."

Stella noticed that Flack's eyes were red-rimmed and far away. Victor was watching him with the attentiveness of someone more than a casual lover. In the elevator, Victor took Flack's hand and squeezed it. He murmured something in his ear, and rubbed Don's back.

_It must bring back memories for Don, _Stella thought. _It wasn't even that long ago that he was in this same hospital, waiting to hear that Jess Angell hadn't survived surgery. He carried her in here himself, and he had the same bloodstains on his hands that Lindsay has now. Danny is his best friend. I can't believe he's even sober. Christ, __**I **__wish I wasn't sober right now._

Lindsay just noticed Victor. She turned to him. "Who are you?"

Victor extended a hand. "Victor Shain. I'm a, ah, friend of Don's. Private Investigator. I'm also working this case."

Lindsay shook his hand. "Lindsay Monroe. Pleasure."

Victor replied sympathetically, "Not under these circumstances."

"I'll give you that," Lindsay agreed. "Don, hey. Are you all right?"

Flack's expression twitched. Victor put a hand on his back.

"Yeah," Flack said tightly. "I'm fine."

By now, everyone knew what this meant. Given that no one was much better than Flack's definition of 'fine', they all fell silent. The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. _Like the gates to Hell, _Stella thought wildly. She collected herself, though it was not easy. If the worst had happened, she would need to be strong for Mac.

Mac was on his feet, and he faced the group without difficulty. A good sign, Stella thought. Danny must have survived the surgery.

"He's stable," Mac announced. "McCullen's bullet just missed his large intestine, he was extremely lucky. The second shot ricocheted, and caught him in the back-"

"Second shot?" Lindsay gasped. "You mean, _my _bullet?"

"Lindsay, it wasn't your fault-"

"My bullet hit Danny!?"

"It ricocheted off of the fire escape," Mac explained, a hand on her shoulder. "Danny was already down, and it grazed his spine. Lindsay, hey, look at me. The doctor says that he should recover. Do you hear me?"

"Should recover," Lindsay echoed. She put a hand over her mouth, pacing from Mac. "He 'should' recover. Mac, what if he doesn't? How am I supposed to tell him that I paralyzed him?"

"That's not going to happen," Mac said. There was a waver in his eyes, but he kept all doubt from his voice. "Even if it did, you did nothing wrong. Lindsay."

Mac turned Lindsay around to face him. To her shock, he embraced her. It was stiff, but more physical affection than Mac normally showed with anyone in public. When he drew back, he rubbed her arms comfortingly.

"You did absolutely nothing wrong, and Danny will understand that," Mac said. "When he wakes up, you'll see."

"He is going to wake up?"

"Yes," Mac said. "Danny lost a lot of blood, but help arrived in time to keep the loss from being catastrophic. He has a long road ahead of him, Lindsay, I'm not denying that. There is a chance his spine sustained permanent damage. But he's going to live. He's … He's going to live."

Stella could see that Mac was clinging to this. Her heart ached for him, but she knew Mac would never lean on someone in public.

"Danny is going to live thanks to you," Mac told Lindsay. "If you hadn't followed all of your instincts and shot McCullen out of that alley, what do you think would have happened, Lindsay?"

"I … I don't know."

"McCullen would have killed him," Mac said. "You do know, Lindsay. We all know it. You saved Danny's life. Don't you ever think you played a role other than that tonight. You saved Danny's life."

Mac's face broke into pained emotion. As the shocked team looked on, he embraced Lindsay again, tightly.

"Thank you," Mac murmured into her ear. "Thank you."

Lindsay clung to Mac, bursting into tears. He held her for a long moment. Then, they sat side by side in the waiting chairs. Mac kept an arm slung over her shoulders, as Lindsay cried into her hands.

"I gotta get out of here," Don told Victor. "I need to find this son-of-a-bitch."

Victor clutched his shoulder. "Won't mind a little help?"

Don hesitated, searching his eyes. He was used to shouldering responsibilities like these. In fact, there were times when he took on several manhunts in the course of a few weeks. He had never once asked for help, never thought he needed it. By now, the drugs and alcohol had mostly cleared his system, and his mind was recovering from its dark time.

Still, tonight …

"No, I'd appreciate it," Don finally said. "Come on. Let's go."

"As much as I hate it, every minute tonight is crucial," Mac said, standing. "We should all get back to this case so we can end it once and for all."

"I'm going to stay here," Lindsay said. "I think someone should be here to watch over Danny. When he wakes up."

"Of course," said Mac. "As for the rest of us, we now have two killers to catch."


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

**10:45 PM, January 14, 2010**

**McCullen's Avenue Tavern**

The CSI team gathered to process the scene of Danny's shooting. Don, followed by Victor, took statements from the witnesses at the bar. Adam called with information regarding Sean McCullen and his hairless friend. The group gathered to go over everything learned thus far, inside the bar rather than in the cold, blood-soaked alley.

"Sean McCullen, born Seamus Cullen, moved here from Ireland in the '80s to avoid a murder charge," Mac said. "He was involved with a gang that has influence here, so they probably were responsible for smuggling him into the United States and giving him a new identity. McCullen opened the bar, and he apparently went straight as far as gang activity goes. He has been involved with a number of anti-gay organizations, however, the latest being D3-ATS. He even goes to protests all over the US. It was at one of these protests that he met with our hairless killer: Howard Avery."

Mac held up his phone to show them Avery's photo.

"Yeah, that's him," Flack said. "That's the guy at the D3-ATS meeting. If I had just taken him in then-"

"You had no cause to bring him in," Victor said. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I should have questioned him. I could have pushed him, gotten him to assault me. I should have done _something_! I should have-"

"If you had cornered him, you could be in the hospital alongside your friend," Victor said sternly. "Let it go, Don."

"He's right, the man is dangerous," Mac said. "Howard Avery was born in Tennessee, where he applied to the US Marine Corps at the age of eighteen. He was rejected due to failing the psych test. Ever since, he's styled himself as a defender of the American Way, hence the soldier gear he wears and uses. Avery has been involved in every kind of hate group imaginable: anti-gay, white supremacy, self-appointed border patrol gangs. He has an encyclopedia-sized criminal record, everything from assault to attempted murder. He's currently wanted for jumping parole in Florida. It was at a protest in Florida that Avery met McCullen. The protest was outside a military base, and Alan Fraser was one of the soldiers that came out to put it down."

"McCullen must have remembered Fraser from Florida when he saw him in his bar," Stella said. "He made Avery aware of Fraser's presence in New York."

"McCullen also made Avery aware of all the other potential targets he was aware of," Mac said. "John Lazaro. Danny and I. Flack. He listened in on everything we said and reported it back to Avery. They planned out a kill list together, using D3-ATS to meet and find supporters."

Flack's phone rang and he answered it.

"We've got eyes on McCullen," he announced. "I'm going to get this guy, Mac."

"Go," Mac said.

Flack and Victor went running from the alley. Mac was not certain he agreed with the PI's involvement, but he had no time to object. He could only hope that Flack did not lose control. He doubted Victor was the type to pull him back from the edge.

* * *

**11:07 PM, January 14, 2010**

**Condemned Church, Bronx, New York**

"Good thing I called this location in," Flack said as he eased his car down the road towards the crumbling church. "Patrolman called in seeing a man fitting McCullen's description on the move in this area. My guess is that he's holed up in the church his precious D3-ATS group met at. McCullen didn't know we had been here earlier."

"You good to do this?"

Flack looked surprised by the question. "Yeah, why?"

Victor studied him for a long moment. "I checked up some records, after you fell asleep at my place. I knew that you were keeping something from me, something else you were harboring guilt over. I had to be absolutely certain that you weren't the killer."

"Records? What records?"

"Police files, _your _files," Victor said. He held up a hand when Flack started to complain. "I know it isn't legal, but you know as well as I do it's standard practice for PIs to have access to police records. I found what I was looking for. I found out what happened after you lost your girlfriend Jess Angell."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You shot one of the men responsible," Victor said. "Don, it wasn't a justified shooting, was it?"

Don stared straight ahead through the windshield, his face blank. "Of course it was."

"Don, look at me."

Don swallowed, and met his eyes. Victor put a hand on his knee and leaned closer to him.

"Tell me the truth."

"Seems like you've already convinced yourself of what the truth is," Don said angrily. "Why even ask me?"

Victor drummed his fingers on Don's knee. He sat back in the passenger seat, quiet. They parked outside the church, but neither moved to exit the car.

"I killed a man," Victor said. "When I was working as a criminal profiler for the FBI. I hunted down a serial killer that raped and murdered children. I hunted alongside the law, and then when I found this man, this … monster … I had him all to myself. I lied to you last night, when I said no one had ever laughed at me before. _He_ laughed at me. He laughed in my face about all the children he had slaughtered. So I slaughtered him."

Don's eyes were round as he listened. Victor was as calm as if he were reciting children's poetry.

"There was no possible way of justifying what I did to him," Victor said. "I was already in a dark place, and everybody at the Bureau knew it. I knew how it would go down. So, I covered up what I had done. I anonymously sent proof of death to the families of the victims to let them know justice had been done. Then, I publicly claimed failure, and resigned from the Bureau."

Victor turned back to Don. There was a weariness in his eyes that went beyond his years.

"I recognized the guilt you were shouldering, because I've lived with it," Victor said. "Not regret. I don't regret killing that animal, and I doubt you regret avenging Angell. But the guilt of betraying what we stand for, the guilt of having to kill another human being in cold blood, that doesn't ease simply because one has no regrets. Does it?"

"No," Don replied softly. "It doesn't."

"I've never told anyone the real reason I left the FBI," Victor said. "Some of the people I worked with must have suspected. Your Mac Taylor had read about all of this, and he let me know that he figured it out. But I've never spoken of it in words, not once."

"Victor … "

"I'm telling you now, because I want you to know that I understand what you did," Victor said, taking Flack's face into his hand. "But the reason I left the Bureau was that I no longer trusted myself. Once you realize that you have the potential to take the law into your own hands without regret, without conscience, you have to decide whether you can reign that potential in or not. I didn't trust that I could, so I stepped down. Don, you have to make that decision now. Okay? Right now, before this case goes any further. Can you trust yourself?"

"It's been like I've been living outside myself ever since," Don said. "I couldn't articulate what was eating away at me, but that's exactly it: I haven't been able to trust myself. So I started drinking to give myself the confidence to do my job."

"And now that you're sober? Now that you know?"

"I think … I think I'm ready to trust myself," Don said. "I can't see myself ever doing something like that again. I just can't. I thought revenge would make me feel better, but it didn't. It just left me empty and disappointed with myself. So, no, I _can't_ misstep like that again. It would kill me."

Victor smiled. "Well, you're a better man than I."

"How about you? Can you be trusted in there?"

"I won't screw this up," Victor said. "I still remember how to follow protocol. Don't worry about me."

"I'm trusting you, Victor," Flack said gravely. "You're not supposed to be working with me."

"I sometimes do consultation work for the NYPD," Victor said. "Believe me, I can handle myself."

"All right. Let's get in there, then."

"Let's do it."

They exited the car and walked slowly up to the church. Outside the church doors, Victor drew a pistol. Flack raised his eyebrows. He had not realized that Victor had been wearing a holster beneath his coat. Victor gave him a quirk of a smile. Flack motioned that he would take point, and pushed the church doors open slowly.

The church was dark and silent. Flack's footsteps creaked across the decrepit floorboards. He waited, listened, but heard nothing. He motioned for Victor to take the right, as he went left. They moved slowly around the pews.

"Sean McCullen!" shouted Flack. "This is the NYPD! Come out slowly with your hands raised in the air!"

Flack had not expected a response, and he didn't get one. He took out his flashlight and shined it around the room. The beam looked feeble, nearly swallowed up by the blackness in the church. Victor stopped suddenly, and beckoned Flack over. He pointed up. Both men were still, and then they heard a shuffle overhead.

Don crept to the stairwell in the back of the room. He made his way up the stone steps, keeping the heels of his shoes off the floor to keep them from making a sound. Victor followed closely behind him.

The stairs opened onto a wide hallway lined with doors. Some were off the hinges, a few were completely missing. Many of the rooms were choked with piles of broken furniture. Don turned his flashlight off, shut his eyes for several seconds to get them used to the dark. He and Victor went side by side down the hall, listening, glancing into rooms.

Suddenly, a stack of furniture was pushed out of one of the door frames. Flack jumped back as the furniture clattered to the floor. There was a blur of motion. Flack turned his flashlight on and aimed his gun.

"Sean McCullen! Freeze!"

Before he could get a clear shot, McCullen aimed his gun back and shot wildly. Victor and Don flattened themselves against the walls. McCullen ran around a corner, and they heard his footsteps clattering upwards. Flack swore, running after him.

"You got nowhere to go, McCullen!" Flack called as he ran down the hall. "Give it up! There's only one way this ends!"

Don clattered up the wooden stairs to the bell tower. He saw McCullen look down at him to aim his gun. Flack aimed his flashlight directly into the man's eyes, and he heard a shout of aggravated pain. While McCullen was momentarily blinded, Flack let off a shot. It hit the gun, knocking it out of McCullen's hand. The gun fell down from the winding stairs, hitting the floor far below.

"You're done, McCullen!" Flack shouted, hurrying up the stairs. "Give it up, you piece of shit!"

McCullen kept running up the stairs. He was damnably fast, and had disappeared into the darkness of the bell tower by the time Flack got to the top. Flack shone his flashlight around, but could not get sight of him.

Flack held up a hand for Victor to stop on the stairs. Victor came to a halt. Flack motioned him back. Victor frowned in confusion, but walked back down the stairs. Flack pressed one ear shut with his free hand, and covered the other with his elbow. He aimed for the bell above, and fired.

McCullen came stumbling into view, clutching his ears. Flack managed to keep his gun on him, though the reverberations set his teeth on edge. Victor came up and past him, aiming at McCullen.

"Nice move," Victor remarked to Flack. "You trying to handicap us both?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Victor shook his head, and walked behind McCullen. Flack, one eye squinted from the ringing in his right ear, walked before him. McCullen looked between the two men, but was helpless to do anything. Flack turned him around, getting his handcuffs out.

"You have the right to keep your filthy mouth shut, asshole," Flack informed him.

McCullen looked furious, and baffled.

"Don't think he can hear you," Victor said.

"That's all right," Flack said as cuffed McCullen. He grinned. "We'll show him the dummy cards at the station. Let's go."

They began the tread down the stairwell. Flack kept a gun stuck into McCullen's side. He wasn't going to take any chances with the man that had shot Danny.

"You know, sometime … " Victor started ponderously.

Don looked at Victor questioningly.

"Sometime, I've got to get you in handcuffs," Victor said with a sly smile.

Don blushed, but did not look adverse to the idea. "You think about a thing like that, at a time like this?"

"What can I say?" Victor said. "Catching the bad guy really rings my bell."

Don laughed. He was immensely pleased to have laid hands on McCullen. Things were finally looking up.

* * *

McCullen had his ears tended to, and then was booked and processed. Mac came down to the precinct. He congratulated Flack and grudgingly thanked Victor for his help. The three took a short break for coffee while they waited to interrogate McCullen.

"You're not bad in the field," Victor told Flack. "Except for almost blowing everyone's hearing out, that is."

"You're never going to let me live down that bell thing, are you?" Don grumbled.

"No, I'm not," Victor grinned. "You really rang in a new classic."

"Oh come on … "

"Don, you did good," Mac told him. He clapped Flack on the shoulder. "I knew you would."

"Thanks, Mac," Don beamed. He noticed Victor giving him a look, and said, "You were pretty good back-up, too, Vic."

"Thank you very much, Don Junior," Victor said. "I, ah … It's funny, but it was great to be in the field. I hadn't realized that I missed it."

"Maybe it's time you reconsidered trusting yourself again," Don said.

Victor shot him an annoyed look. "You really don't get the meaning of a private conversation, do you?"

"Oh?" Mac intervened. "And why don't you trust yourself, Victor?"

Victor put his hands in his coat pockets, looking down his stately nose at the two men. He narrowed his eyes, and refused to acknowledge the question. Fortunately, a cop came in and told Mac and Don that they were ready for the interrogation.

"Good luck in there," Victor said. "I think I'll go see if there's any consulting work available. It would be nice to work with you again, Donald Junior."

"Not if you keep calling me that."

Victor gave his shoulder a squeeze, and then left. Mac and Don headed for the interrogation room. Sean McCullen was handcuffed to the table. He sat with the expression of a Prisoner of War. It took every ounce of Mac's self-control to keep from drawing his gun and shooting the man in the face.

"Mr. McCullen, let's get something out of the way," Mac said, standing before the table. "Neither Detective Flack nor I want to spend one more moment in your presence than is absolutely necessary. You represent the absolute worst of humanity."

"At least I am human," McCullen retorted. "Which is more than I can say for you two arse-fuckers."

"Hey, you shut your mouth, you piece of garbage!" Flack yelled at him.

"Don't give him what he wants, Don," Mac said. "He isn't worth it."

"That's right, Donny boy, listen to your master here," McCullen goaded him. "Have you always been his bitch, or are you punishing yourself for failing to keep your woman safe?"

Flack crossed his arms. "You done yet?"

"Not really," McCullen said. "You know, your sister was a whore, but at least she had the decency to spread her legs for the opposite gender. And believe me, I would know."

Flack's hands tightened, and the color drained from his face. He froze where he stood. Before he recovered from the shock, Mac acted. He slammed both hands down on the interrogation table, making Flack jump. Mac leaned down to face McCullen directly.

"You have _one _chance," Mac told McCullen. "Just this one. Give us Avery."

"And who is that?"

"Don't." Mac took McCullen by his stringy brown hair. "_**Don't**_ play games with me! You give us Howard Avery, and you might just get a break. A small one."

"And why would I care about your small break?" McCullen asked. "I'm sure you've found out all about me by now."

"You're right, I have," Mac said. "I've talked to a lot of your old friends in Ireland, on the street and in the police force. There are a lot of them that would love to have you deported back to your homeland. I can stop that from happening, _if you give me Avery._"

"Right, because things will go so much better for me here," McCullen said cynically, "after I gave your boyfriend another hole for you to stick it in."

Don's fists were both curled. He did not know how Mac could look into that sneering face and not tear him apart with his bare hands. Mac unwaveringly glared at him for a long, tense moment. Then, he stood up, straightened his jacket.

"You had your chance," he said. He met Flack's eyes, then looked back down at McCullen. "You won't get another."

Flack followed Mac out of the room.

"What gives?" he asked. "We just giving up?"

"He isn't going to talk to us," Mac said. "I won't give him the satisfaction of letting him get under my skin. All eyes are on this case, Don. If we overstep even a little, it's going to give the lawyers that will debase themselves by defending these animals material to use against us. I will _not_ let a moment of weakness cost the system this case."

"I understand, but what about Avery?" Flack asked. "Do we have any leads?"

"No, but his face is out there," Mac pointed out. "We're running through everything we know about Avery. It's only a matter of time."

The police were escorting McCullen out of interrogation. He gave the two men a smug smile.

"I understand we can't overstep, but man, if I had a minute alone with that guy … " Flack trailed off wistfully. "Hey, where's Victor?"

Mac looked around. "I don't know. He said he was going to see about consulting."

"Yeah, but he should be in the Captain's office," Flack pointed out. "I don't see him anywhere."

Mac shrugged, dialing a number on his phone. "I'm going to see if the lab has anything yet."

Mac had been on the phone for a few minutes, when the station lights flickered. As everyone looked up at them in confusion, they went out. The station went entirely dark, and chaos erupted.

"Everyone calm down!" Mac yelled at the shouting, stumbling crowd. He used his phone to illuminate the area around he and Flack. "Listen to me! Secure the accused, and stay where you are! Emergency power will be on momentarily!"

"McCullen!" Flack exclaimed. "Mac, we gotta go see about McCullen!"

"Wait for the power, Don! Don!"

Flack had already gone running. Mac swore under his breath. He gave some more orders to a few detectives, and then followed Flack's trail. In the hallway to the cells, he ran into the two police officers that had been escorting McCullen. Mac knelt and checked both of their pulses. They were alive, merely unconscious. Mac drew his gun, and continued onward.

Flack met him in the holding area. He had a broad grin on his face. Mac's tension eased.

"We got an address," Flack announced. "McCullen gave up Avery."

"_What_?" Mac asked. "How? Where's McCullen?"

"He's locked up in the back," Flack said nonchalantly. He saw Mac's look and held up his hands innocently. "I didn't touch him."

Mac holstered his gun, just as the emergency lights glowed to life. Victor came striding up to them. His face was serene, but there was a ferocious glint in his eyes. He was massaging his fingers and knuckles.

"It's a shame about the state of the system in New York," Victor said. "What with all the budget cuts and maintenance delays, they can't even keep a police station powered."

"Victor, what did you do?" Mac asked.

Flack's grin widened. Victor noticed, and gave him a small smile in return.

"Who says I did anything? Walk with me."

They all followed the man as he swiftly led them out of the holding area. They slipped back into the crowd without attracting attention. On the way out of the precinct, Victor grabbed three coffees quickly. He passed these around outside, giving them the appearance of having used the power failure to take a break.

"How would anyone think that I did something to McCullen when he didn't even see me?" Victor said. "I don't work at the precinct, so there isn't a single cop he can point to. For all intents and purposes, McCullen tried to escape, ran into a cell by mistake, and the door fell shut behind him."

"And how are you going to explain the battery?"

Victor grinned, showing his teeth in a wolfish manner. "There are ways to hurt a man without leaving a mark."

"Ha ha! That's just great," Flack said, sounding like a kid at Christmas. "Hey, Mac, we got to go find this Avery. Are you coming with?"

"No, I am not coming 'with'," Mac said in annoyance. "You and I will go to the address, Don. Victor, I appreciate everything you've done, but you're on thin ice. I will not have these arrests messed up by going outside the lines."

"But Mac, we wouldn't have a lead if Victor hadn't done what he did!" Flack defended him. "He's not a cop, he doesn't have to play by our rules. He just thought outside the box a little."

"This isn't the FBI, Don! We don't get cover-ups!" Mac snapped. "Now are you going to stand here and argue this, or are you going to come with me?"

"Go on," Victor told Flack. "It's fine."

"You don't give him the orders here," Mac said coldly. "Don!"

Don looked between them. Mac turned and headed for the car.

"Sorry," Don said to Victor. "That was awesome, though. Like a spy movie or something."

Victor chuckled. "Thanks. Hey, we'll catch up when you finally put this guy away, okay?"

"Yeah. See you."

Victor bent down and gave him a hurried, forceful kiss. Before Don had fully recovered, he had taken off. A little dazed from excitement and feeling, Don joined Mac at the car. Mac was giving him a look, but he said nothing. They got into the car and drove away from the police station.

"It's going to be a long ride out to Jersey," Flack said, yawning. He checked his watch. "What a freaking day."

"Don, how do you feel about Victor?"

"Look, he helped us, Mac," Don said. "He put himself on the line to help us. I don't wanna hear it. Please. Just let it go. We both know people that are still working in the system that have done worse for less noble reasons."

"I wasn't going to complain about his stunt at the police station, Don," Mac said. "I don't like it, but this case has driven me so insane that I'm actually willing to let it go."

"Oh."

"I'm wondering about _you_, Don," Mac said. "When you made your appointment at the Eden of Desires club and met Victor, you were drugged, depressed, reeling from guilt. You threw yourself into a lifestyle that you had never sought out before. I apologize for the role I inadvertently played in influencing you four years ago."

"Mac, I don't blame you for that. To tell you the truth, I had been a little bi-curious before," Don said. "I had just never let myself experiment. Family expectations, church, you know."

"I do."

"After Jess, I never intended to be with _anyone_ again," Don said. "Tell you the truth, you saved me by making me realize that I could be with someone again, that I _wanted _to be with someone. Even if it didn't work out between you and me, still."

"But do you want to be with a man?"

"I want to be with Victor," Flack said. "I like being with him. I mean, he's arrogant, and he's a control freak, but he makes me feel good. I wasn't looking to fall into a relationship with a guy. I just wanted to feel what I felt four years ago. I wanted to … to be punished, I guess. And Danny and I had been there earlier. It was on my mind."

"Victor took advantage," Mac said. "He was FBI once, and a profiler. He could tell you were drugged. He saw your vulnerable mental state. Not only did he let you hire him, he took you home. It was borderline rape, Don."

"You're kidding me, right? He didn't know that I hadn't taken the drugs myself, and he didn't know that I wasn't gay," Flack pointed out. "Hell, he thought I might have been the killer! He had his fun, yeah, but he was also trying to get information. As for me … I got what I paid for."

"Yeah?"

Flack was staring at his hands. He shifted in his seat. "Yeah. It sounds weird to say I 'enjoyed' it, but that's as close to describing it as possible. I was upset and he gave me what I wanted. Then, Victor took me home with him, and I … I really enjoyed that part."

Mac cleared his throat.

"Anyway, I doubted Victor when I saw him at the D3-ATS meeting," Flack said. "I really did. And it hurt. It hurt me more than I thought it would have. That was when I realized that I cared about him. It wasn't just a one-night stand, Mac. We connected, we really did."

"I'll bet you did. And do you want to stay connected?" Mac asked. "Even given all that entails?"

"Yeah, I do," Don said. "You don't have to worry about me, though, Mac. I'm not in that place anymore, and you know I can take care of myself. Besides, I think Victor is a good guy."

"Did this good guy tell you about his past with the FBI? Or why he left?"

"Yeah, he did."

Mac frowned. "And what did he tell you?"

"That you had figured it out."

"I have to say, I never thought he would admit to that," Mac said. "To be honest, I still don't fully trust him."

"I do," Flack said. "But I'm still a detective, Mac, and a grown man. I know how to watch my-" Flack cut himself off, realizing how the words would sound given the situation. "I'm careful."

"I hope so, Don," Mac said. "I've had enough worrying about you to last a lifetime."

"You're a good friend," Flack said appreciatively. "If I end up needing a friend, I'll call you. Promise."

"Okay. That's enough for me."

"How about you?" Flack asked quietly. "Any word on Danny?"

Mac drew a breath. "No. Not yet."

"We'll have this guy locked up by the time he wakes up," Flack said. "You'll be right there to tell him the good news. Right?"

Mac smiled, though the worry was still in his eyes. "God willing."

"So, are you two back together?" Flack asked. "Has he told Lindsay yet?"

"We're going to give it another try." Mac's face quivered. "Who am I kidding? I can't … Jesus, Don, I can't live without him."

Mac shook his head, clutching the wheel as if for dear life. "I keep replaying that phone call in my mind," he went on. "I wasn't in that alley, but I keep seeing Danny in it, lying there bleeding. I keep thinking of how I could have lost him, how I wasn't there for him, what our last moments on Earth together could have been. None of it mattered anymore: not his cheating, not my pride, none of it. I feel like a fool."

"Mac, you're not a fool," Flack said. He was taken aback to see Mac in such an unguarded state. "I'm sure you had your reasons for being angry at Danny."

"They weren't enough," Mac said. "I could have lost Danny after spending over two _years_ being petty and afraid and angry. There is no reason good enough to excuse such a waste."

Flack wanted to comfort him, but he could think of nothing to say. It was like watching your father break down. He looked out the window, stunned into silence.

"You've been mired in guilt, but I'm the one that should feel guilty, Don," Mac said. "My lies and secrets have led me to make so many mistakes. With you, with Danny. Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor. It sickens me that I ever believed so much in that damned policy that I was called that. Keeping so many secrets, you get used to accumulating darker and darker ones. It becomes almost a game, thinking that you can get away with hiding anything. I've been arrogant, high-handed. I've hurt both you and Danny both. I never looked inward, when Danny cheated on me. I never thought that the problem lay with me."

Flack put a hand on Mac's shoulder. Mac was too lost in his reflections to notice.

"In all the time we were together, Danny never knew how much I needed him," Mac said. "I was so involved with my act of being the soldier, the strong one, the patriarch, that I buried my feelings for him along with all my other emotions. In trying to keep it all together, I almost lost it all."

Mac gave Flack a weary smile. "Just don't ever do that, Don," he advised. "In the end, it doesn't matter who you love, so long as you love them honestly."

"I will, Mac," Don said solemnly. He shifted, frowning, and turned back to the window. The snowy roads stretched out before them, wide empty swathes cut out of the sky-bound city. For a moment, he wished he were out in the snow, rather than trapped in a car discussing subjects that had stumped philosophers for years. In truth, Flack thought the whole concept of philosophy (spending a healthy life in thought rather than action) highly questionable.

Mac caught Flack's glum expression, and laughed.

"I'm sorry, Don," he said. "You're still young. I guess tonight, I just feel old."

"You're not that old, Mac."

"You don't have to hit a certain age number to feel ancient."

"Well," Don said, "I have to agree with that."


	15. Chapter 15

**15**

**1:24 AM, January 15, 2010**

**Abandoned Hospital, New Jersey**

"Do these people just enjoy being creepy, or what?"

"I never thought you were the fainthearted type, Don," smirked Mac.

"I'm not," Don said, despite the wariness in his eyes. "But these old abandoned places are tactical hell. Give me a minute, Mac. I'm going to see if I can get some additional support from local law enforcement."

Mac exited the car while Don made the call. He put his hands in his coat pockets, and looked up at the old private clinic. It was a tall, Victorian-era utilitarian building surrounded by overgrown territory that might have held gardens once. It was a lot of ground to cover, and neither Don nor Mac knew how much support Avery might be hiding away with.

"We're good," Don said as he got out of the car. He was obviously wired with the energy that built up before a mission. "This is going to be a big get, so I'm thinking every man that can be spared will be out here soon. Once we get a perimeter established, we'll take a team in."

Mac suddenly whipped around. "Did you see that?"

Don followed his look, tensing. "What?"

Mac relaxed. "Nothing. I thought I saw motion on the road. I'd better get a grip."

"This is the end of it," Don said. "If Avery and whatever straggling fanatics are with him are in there, we're done. The link between the murders and D3-ATS are enough to put the group on terror watch lists, under the Patriot Act. They're done."

"But the hatred will live on."

"That's not like you, Mac."

"No, but it's reality," Mac said. "The world has changed. Hate has always been prevalent in human nature, in society, in civilization, but it's organized now. With broader communication comes broader categorization: the internet brings our true nature into precision focus. We are branding ourselves, as if every sentient being is a small corporation, and selling the product of our souls to the world. For love, profit, popularity, fame, riches- it doesn't matter. Unfortunately, hate has become akin to sex: it sells."

"So we end up with all kinds of miniaturized gangs," Flack said. "Gangster wannabes, KKK and Neo Nazis, self-styled New Revolutionists like the extreme branches of the Tea Party, eco-terrorists, and all the anti-immigration/gay/corporate statement terrorists we can handle. Welcome to crime of the future."

"People thought that media piracy was going to be the greatest threat that the internet would pose," Mac said. "Little did they ever consider that communication would take its place. Rudyard Kipling once said, 'Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind'. Until global communication became a reality, I don't think the full reality of that statement was ever realized."

"Bad, bad times," Flack said. "But, Mac, we're taking these guys down. We'll take down all the others. One at a time."

The NYPD units they had called to follow them down to the abandoned hospital arrived. Soon after, back-up from the local New Jersey enforcement agencies arrived. Flack and Mac busied themselves with instructions and preparations. Floodlights were flashed at the old building, bathing the decrepit brick building with a white glow.

"The megaphone," Flack said, holding up the item with a grin. "Haven't used this thing in a while."

Mac chuckled at the boyish enthusiasm. Flack turned the megaphone on and announced their presence to whoever was in the building. He ordered an evacuation, and fell silent to wait. Slowly, people began to filter out of the buildings, their hands in the air. Flack grabbed the first man that came within their vicinity and slammed him harshly into the nearest police car.

"Where's Avery?" Flack demanded. "WHERE IS HE?!"

The man met Flack with an obnoxious defiance. "Wouldn't you love to know, Detective Flack?"

Flack was unnerved at the recognition. He banged the man's head against the car, hard. Mac lingered at his elbow, but did not protest the violence. Flack continued to threaten and question the man, but he was obstinately resistant. Disgusted, Flack pushed him off to a couple of cops.

"They're just wasting time to give Avery a chance to escape," Flack said. "We won't get anywhere with these clowns. We have to get in there."

Mac nodded. "I agree."

"I need a vest over here!" Flack shouted to the nearest officers. "We're going in. Mac, you got the blueprints for this place?"

"Yeah, I had the team working on getting them," Mac said. He brought them up on his phone, and went through them quickly. "We have two side entrances, the front entrance, and the back."

"Okay," Flack said. "I need four tactical teams. Suit up! We're going in in five. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Let's get this cop-killing son-of-a-bitch!"

Flack got a vest on, and so did Mac. While they waited for the teams to suit up and prepare, Flack tried the megaphone again. As expected, Avery did not come out.

Plans were worked out. Mac and Flack gathered two officers to complete their team. They went in first, through the front entrance.

"Keep your eyes and ears open," Mac advised. "We don't know if Avery has anything big planned. This could be a trap."

The white wash of light was soaked up by the darkness inside the hospital. There were old, broken wheelchairs stacked up in the corner of the front waiting room. The four men moved slowly across the broken, ancient floorboards.

_If I never see another hospital again, it'll be too soon, _Flack thought. Though it was old and abandoned, a hospital was a hospital. Walking through these corridors, he had a double impression of deja vu. He was suddenly running down the hall with Jess in his arms, going cold fast but still retaining the last bit of warmth that would ever heat her body. Then, he was walking down the hallway, towards Mac, waiting to hear if Danny was dead or alive. These two memories fragmented, and he felt the weight of all the other times he had visited hospitals: checking on a wounded officer, comforting the families of one that had fallen, or being wheeled through the halls on a stretcher, wounded by one thing or another on the job. The hospitals of his memory were clean and new, but Flack thought this dirty, dilapidated ruin was a more appropriate expression of what a hospital was, at its core.

Though he was sober this time, Flack felt the same sense of surreality that he had experienced the night he had met and hired Victor at the Eden of Desires club. None of the past few days felt real. His life had been turned upside down in every possible way, and this case was the epicenter of it. He had seen life, death, and sex play out across the city, from a high end fetish club to the skeletal remains of faith and healing. It felt like a dream and a nightmare at once. Whatever it was, Flack would be happy when it was over.

Flack glanced at Mac, and could see the same sentiments in his eyes. They went through the first floor at a steady pace, opening doors as they went. There were signs of squatters everywhere: rags piled up into makeshift beds, empty food cans and liquor bottles, battery-powered lamps. Some people even slept on the operating tables and old gurneys. The old building had no running water, and the men had to hold their breathes to search the bathrooms. Roaches were everywhere, not disturbed by the intrusion of the police in the slightest. Their arrogant indifference reminded Flack of the D3-ATS.

"Hey, in here!"

Don and Mac followed the officer's shout. The man was shining his flashlight around an old surgery. He was pale and looked disgusted. As the two detectives followed his gaze, they could see why. Don swore, creatively and bitterly.

There were specimen jars lined up across a shelf, all neatly labeled. Two of them were filled with preservative, and each displayed an organ no man would fail to recognize. The occupied jars were labeled "Fraser" and "Lazaro".

"Trophies," Mac said. He ran his flashlight beam from jar to jar. "This is the kill list."

Flack's heart skipped a beat. His name was on one of the empty jars. Danny's and Mac's were on two more of them. He felt a pang of fear, and, as always happened when he felt afraid, rage crackled through him like fire.

"When I get this guy, there won't be any pieces big enough to fit into a jar," Flack said vehemently.

"Don-"

Flack blew out a sigh, giving his head a short shake. "I know, I know. I'm … I'm good. Let's go."

They exited the surgery and resumed the search of the first floor. Flack walked more hurriedly now, leaving Mac and the others some paces behind. He went into an office, and then called out.

"Take a look at this, Mac."

Mac followed Don's voice. The other two officers stayed in the door frame, keeping an eye out. A large portable lamp was still on, set atop an old wooden desk. There were stacks of books piled in the corner of the room, and many extremist manuals and printouts scattered around it. A large American flag was pinned to the wall behind the desk, its meaning completely warped by its surroundings. The wall around it had a coat of newer paint than the rest of the hospital, and over this words had been scrawled. Bible quotes were scattered throughout a rambling declaration of war against the 'corrupted' modern America.

"This guy really is sick," Flack scowled. He ran a finger over the words, 'If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detetable. They must be put to deaf. - Leviticos 20:13'. Flack remarked,"And illiterate."

They found a janitor's uniform in a closet. It was marked the property of the Eden of Desires club. "That must be how he got in to steal the restraints," Flack said. "And how he knew about Victor. If he saw Victor and me outside the club the night McCullen drugged me, he would have known we were hooking up. Add that to what Danny mentioned about you and me in McCullen's, and there you go. Instant target."

Mac stopped. "Did you hear something?"

Flack turned around, listening. He walked towards Mac, saying, "I didn't hear any-"

There was a loud cracking sound. Flack cried out in surprise and pain as his foot went straight through the floorboards. Between his weight and the desk, the rotted wood had given way. He reached up for the desk, but the added pressure finished collapsing the floor.

"DON!"

There was a louder crash, and Don and the desk vanished into darkness below. Mac got as near the hole as he could. He shouted down. To his relief, he heard Don groaning. He pointed his flashlight beam down. Don was painfully getting to his feet. The height of the desk had shortened the fall, and he had landed on top of it.

"I'm all right, Mac!" Don called up. "God, I hate these fucking old buildings!"

Mac instructed the other half of their team to take the stairs to the basement. Then, he came back to the hole in the floor. He did not like the idea of Flack down there alone.

"I'm going to jump down!" he called. "Move away from the desk, okay?"

"Sure you don't want me to catch you?"

"Don!"

"All right!"

Mac let him get out of the way, and then took the plunge. He hit the desk hard, but fortunately only twisted an ankle a little. Flack helped him down from the desk. Mac quickly turned his flashlight back on, and drew his gun.

The basement was crammed with old furniture and boxes of equipment and records. It stank of urine and feces, doubtless due to the rats Mac glimpsed running from his light. The air was thick and heavy despite its deep chill. There were many blind spots and corners.

"Maybe you heard a rat or something," Flack said. He kept his voice low, however.

"I don't think so," Mac said slowly. "Let's go."

They moved through the basement slowly. Mac stopped at one point, motioned for Flack to listen. The sound of human footsteps was clearly audible up ahead. Don and Mac hurried their pace. The cracking report of gunfire resounded through the basement, and they took cover.

"HOWARD AVERY!" Flack shouted across the room. "This is the NYPD! Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up!"

They heard furniture crashing down, and more footsteps. There was the squeak of a metal door opening and then banging shut. Mac and Don followed in Avery's direction. The door led to metal stairs going down. There was half of a sign left above them.

"Must be maintenance," Flack said. "Let's go."

They went down into the musty depths of the earth. The air was frigid enough that their breaths escaped in puffs of fog. They paused as they heard an outburst of activity overhead.

"There must have been some more D3-ATS members left," Mac said. "The other two men won't be down here yet. The maintenance sub-basement was dug very near local sewage tunnels. D3-ATS might have tunneled into them. If Avery gets in there, he could go anywhere. We have to go it alone."

Flack nodded in agreement, and they headed down. Old machinery stood in rusty silence in the maintenance sub-basement. They passed a discarded gun. Mac checked it. It had run out of bullets.

"Here's hoping Avery doesn't have another," Flack said. He called out into the depths of the sprawling room, "AVERY! Give it up!"

"There!" Mac said suddenly.

The men broke into a run. There was a hole blasted into the far wall, and surely enough, a crude tunnel had been dug through it. Avery was running wildly towards it. He had no weapon in hand that either detective could see.

"Stay where you are!"

Avery suddenly skidded to a halt. To everyone's shock, Victor Shain had emerged from the tunnel. His gun was drawn and aimed dead straight at Avery's head. Avery wisely raised his hands in the air, trapped between Victor in the tunnel and Don and Mac behind him. Three guns were on him, and yet he merely smiled.

"Well, now, you got me," Avery said. He put his hands on the back of his head, laughing. "Isn't this cute? Taken in by not only one, but _three_ of you queens. You are taking me in, aren't you, _detectives_?"

"That's right, asshole," Flack said. "And you have the right to shut your fucking mouth."

"Why would I do that?" Avery asked. "No, I intend to talk, and go right on talking. I'm going to tell the world all about you all. How you pretend to be men. How you pretend to serve the law while pushing your own little ungodly agenda. I'm gonna talk and talk. I might even write a book."

The three men made no move towards Avery. Flack's hand tightened on his gun.

"By the time this is over, I'm going to be an American hero," Avery said. "And you three fairies? You'll only be remembered as the so-called men who _caught _Howard Avery. Yeah, I'll be a chapter in the history of this nation. People will _thank me_ for slicing through Fraser and Lazaro."

"You won't be a chapter in any history books," Victor said, drawing everyone's attention. "You? You won't even be a footnote."

"Yeah? You just wait," Avery said. "I have a lot of fans to visit me in jail. Lots of revolutionaries just waiting to take a crack at your precious detective over there. You think this ends here? You think this is surrender? This is only the begin-"

The shot exploded through the empty maintenance room, flat and oddly artificial. The echo rang and subsided into silence. Avery stumbled a few steps, blood pumping out of his chest from a ludicrously small hole. Then the blood trickled from his mouth, and he fell to his knees. His face became a death mask of shock, and he fell face down on the concrete floor.

Mac and Don lowered their guns, gaping at Victor in shock. Victor holstered his weapon and swiftly made his way over to the body.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mac asked. The shock began to wear into anger. "He had surrendered, Victor!"

"You call that a surrender?" Victor asked softly. He knelt and stared down at Avery until the life left his eyes.

"Victor, you _murdered _him, in cold blood!" Mac said. "What are we supposed to do now? We have to report this!"

"Do you?" Victor asked, looking up at him with those unreadable green eyes. He began to maneuver the body into another position. "Do you really?"

"What am I supposed to do?" Mac asked furiously. "Cover _this_ up?!"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Victor said softly.

Mac paled. "What do you mean by that?"

Victor turned Avery around, and got to his feet. He walked past Flack and Mac, studying the floor as he went.

"What do you take me for, Mac?" he asked as he walked. "I told Don earlier that I looked up his files to rule him out as our killer here. What do you think I found in those files, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" Don asked. He looked at Mac. "What is he talking about, Mac?"

Mac looked away. Victor knelt to recover Avery's discarded gun. He brought it back over to the body, walking fast. Mac and Don's radios were buzzing with chatter as the other units tried to get a hold of them.

"Is this about Jess?" Don asked, looking between the two men. "Are you talking about what happened after Jess died?"

"Answer him," Victor told Mac. He was setting the gun in Avery's lifeless hand.

"You _knew_?" Don asked, turning on Mac. "Mac, you've known this whole time? What I did after Jess died? You told me not to tell you, but you _knew_?! Tell me! I want to hear you say it, Mac!"

"Yes! All right?" Mac replied irritably. "I'm a CSI, Don, what did you think? That I wouldn't recognize an unjustified shooting when I saw one? _Of course_ I knew!"

"Then why didn't you report me?"

Mac blew out a frustrated sigh. "Because I couldn't see any good coming out of it," he said. He glanced warily over at Victor, but turned back to Don. "You're … Don, you are a good man, an excellent detective. I couldn't see the point of losing you, personally and professionally, over …. over that. It was a mistake, I will never tell you otherwise, but you had suffered enough. You've been punished enough, Don. It's time you were forgiven- especially by yourself."

Mac turned to Victor. "That doesn't mean that I forgive _you_! Or that I'm going to cover for you the way I covered for Don. I know him. I trust him. I don't even _like_ you, and I wouldn't trust you as far as I would-"

"Whatever you think of me, are you really going to put Avery over me?" Victor asked. He stood, looking down at the body he had repositioned. "Is it worth ruining my life, for this piece of shit?"

"This isn't the first time you've done this," Mac said. "I would have thought it was the second, but is it? What _is _your body count, Victor? And has every person you've put down deserved it, beyond the shadow of a doubt?"

"This _is _my second," Victor said. He faced the two men. "There. I've said. I admit it- Hell, I _celebrate_ it! I will shout it from the rooftops! Yes, I killed that child-killing psychopath before I left the FBI. Yes, I killed Avery. And yes, I am damn certain they both deserved it. So do whatever you want, Mac. Report whatever you want. I won't stand here and beg for you to lie for me. I don't need you to lie for me."

"Mac-"

"You, too, Don?" Mac asked wearily. "You're all right with this? He shot an unarmed man, he's tampering with the … the scene."

"What _are _you doing?" Don asked Victor.

"He's repositioning the body to make it appear that Avery was shot while reaching for his weapon," Mac answered for him. "Even if the gun wasn't loaded, there is no way any of us could have known that. Victor has a legitimate reason for trailing Avery, given that he was hired by Jans to find him, and if he saw him reaching to draw a weapon on police officers, there's no way anyone will find him at fault for the shooting."

Victor knelt down to tweak some things with Avery. "I told you that I could take care of myself," he said. He lifted his gloved hands to show that he would not leave prints. "The science I used with the Bureau may have been of a less tangible nature than forensics, but I still learned some things. Report whatever you want, Mac. It'll come down to your word against mine. And don't think that I don't have friends in high places."

"You'll be the ex-FBI agent hired to find a cold-blooded cop killer by the man's loved one, and I will be the detective that tried to have you punished for it," Mac said. "And Don will be in the middle."

Flack's eyes widened. "Hey, what?"

"You'd have to choose a side," Mac told him. "Join Victor in his lie, or back up my report. The case will split the city in half."

"All over D3-ATS," Victor said. He stood, satisfied with Avery's appearance. "Would you do that? Give Avery all that posthumous press? Let this blemish on the city putrefy more than it has?"

Don put a hand on Mac's shoulder. "Mac. He has a point. Doesn't he?"

Mac looked up at him. There was pleading in his eyes. Mac had gone against all his principals to keep Don from ruin before. He had just recovered enough to be whole again. He would do anything to keep him that way, but what would the cost be?

Mac turned to Victor. He wished that he could get a better reading on the man, but it was impossible. He trusted Don and his judgment enough, but he had no reason to trust Victor. The evidence against him, in fact, was sufficient to distrust him utterly. Mac had never believed in blurring the lines of justice, but on the other hand-

_(Don't Ask, Don't Tell Taylor)_

-his black and white policies had not always served him so well in the past.


	16. Chapter 16 (Epilogue)

**Epilogue – All These Things**

_When there's nowhere else to run  
Is there room for one more son  
One more son  
If you can hold on  
If you can hold on, hold on  
I want to stand up, I want to let go  
You know, you know - no you don't, you don't  
I want to shine on in the hearts of men  
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand _

**6:44 AM, January 15, 2010**

**Lenox Hill Hospital**

"Mac?"

Mac's eyes flew open, and he sat up so quickly that he nearly fell out of his chair. He stood, and his grip on Danny's hand tightened. He could not keep the smile from lighting his face when he saw Danny's eyes, half-open but tellingly aware.

"Aow, Mac, you're cutting off the circulation there," Danny groaned.

Mac laughed, and released his hand. "How do you feel, Danny?"

"Like a truck hit me," Danny said. He tried to sit up, but fell back. "A truck full of drugs. What am I on? My head is in space right now."

"Well, the bullet needed to be extracted," Mac said. "Shh, sh, just relax. No need to rush things, Danny."

"Mac, I … Hey, why can't I feel my legs?"

"Danny, please-"

"Mac!"

Mac stroked a hand through his hair, shushing him again. He calmly explained the extent of the injury, and his chances for recovery. It was highly probable that he would be able to walk again, with rehabilitation. The news did not particularly excite Danny.

"And what if I don't recover?" he asked fretfully. "What if … What if I never walk again? Oh God-"

"Danny, don't panic," Mac said. "We'll figure it out. You hear me? We will figure this out. You're alive, that's all that matters."

Danny shut his eyes, laying back on the pillow. He reached up a hand and Mac took it, more gently this time. He kissed his forehead, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"That, and the fact that we got them, Danny."

Danny looked up again at this. "You did?"

"Yeah, we did," Mac said. "McCullen is in custody, and Avery is dead. The FBI is dealing with the remnants of D3-ATS, now officially on the Terror Watch list. It's over."

"Wow," Danny said, brightening some. "Who took the shot on Avery?"

Mac paused. "Actually, it was Victor. Flack's Victor."

"Really." Danny's eyes were round. "And how did that go down?"

Mac ran through the confrontation at the abandoned hospital for Danny. Danny actually managed to pull himself into a half-sitting position, all his attention on the account of the confrontation.

"So what did you do?" Danny asked. "Did you cover for this guy, or what?"

Mac grimaced, thinking back to the turmoil he had been in just several hours earlier.

_Another head aches, another heart breaks  
I am so much older than I can take  
And my affection, well it comes and goes  
I need direction to perfection, no no no no _

* * *

**[Four Hours Ago]**

_The police arrived on the scene after Mac had used the radios to confirm their location. Before long, Stella and Hawkes had also arrived. Flack, Victor, and Mac had not said another word to one another. Victor and Mac shared an obstinate, angry tension. Flack was visibly amxious, and stood between them both._

_Statements were made. The three men explained how they had come to be in the maintenance sub-basement. Then, it came to the shooting._

"_I had received a tip from a D3-ATS member that they had tunneled into the sewage system from the sub-basement," Victor explained. "I waited for Avery to make a run for the tunnel, and when I saw him, I approached. I saw the suspect reach behind himself, and I saw a gun tucked into the back of his pants' waistband. Detectives Taylor and Flack had just approached. They did not have time to make a clear shot. I had already taken aim, and I fired."_

"_He's got great aim," Flack said._

_Mac gave him a look, and Flack scratched the back of his neck, looking at the floor. Victor's face told nothing, but he was inwardly struggling to stifle a laugh._

"_You agree that this is accurate, Detective Flack?" the officer asked._

"_Yeah," Flack said. He gave Mac a brief, apologetic look, and then repeated, certainly, "I do. That's what happened."_

_Mac was annoyed, but to his surprise, he did not feel betrayed. _

"_Detective Taylor, is this accurate?"_

_Mac did not look at either Victor or Don. He could feel the tension rippling from them. _

"_Yes."_

_It was then that Mac realized that the ordeal was truly over. He was still doubtful as to Victor's character, but it was a minor concern. He was tired, bone-achingly tired, and now he could finally have a moment's rest._

"_Yes. That's what happened."_

"_Well, then, there's only one more thing left to do," the officer said. He turned to Victor and extended a hand. "I'd like to shake your hand, sir."_

_Mac and Don shared an astonished look. Victor allowed himself a quirk of a smile. He took the man's hand and shook it._

"_Thank you, sir, on behalf of the NYPD."_

* * *

_Help me out  
Yeah, you know you got to help me out  
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner  
You know you got to help me out _

**[Now]**

"Wow," Danny remarked. "You actually-"

"Yes, I did."

"And you had covered for Don," Danny said. "I didn't know that."

"It wasn't something I wanted being spread around," Mac said. "It still bothers me that this Victor Shain is aware of that particular secret."

"You don't trust him?"

"I don't know whether to trust him or not," Mac said. "Which is, in a way, worse than anything. At least knowing someone is untrustworthy gives you a definite way of dealing with them. This guy … I don't know what to make of him."

"Don likes him," Danny said. "I know they just met, but Don's usually got good instincts."

"I'll just have to trust him on that," Mac said. "For now. Frankly, I can't spend another second worrying. I just want to … to have a moment to breathe. With you."

"Yeah, about that," Danny said. "I was going to tell Lindsay, Mac, I really was. I just haven't had the chance yet. After we went to McCullen's, I was going to talk to her, I swear-"

"Danny, it's okay," Mac assured him. "It's okay. Lindsay knows. McCullen made those remarks. She saw the way you reacted to them. She knows, Danny. You two can settle up later. You need to relax now."

"Oh. Yeah, all right."

Mac held his tired face in his hands. Danny slumped back into the pillows, smiling. Mac leaned down over him, and brought his lips to his. It was a sleepy kiss, but a genuine one. It warmed Mac's heart, cutting through all the layers of chill that had been building up during the case.

Lindsay had just been coming in to see Danny, having been informed by a nurse that he was conscious. She arrived in time to see the kiss. Whatever hopeful doubts she had been harboring vanished. No matter how much they had done together, Danny had never kissed her with such a natural ease.

"Oh. No."

Flack and Victor were outside the room, talking over coffee. Their attention fell on her.

"You okay?" Don asked.

"I just- I thought there might have been a chance, you know?" Lindsay said, speaking more to herself than to Flack. "That maybe, deep down, Danny cared. I thought we might have another chance, someday. But … But he never looked at me like that. He never was going to, was he?"

"Lindsay, it isn't about you," Flack tried to comfort her. "What can I say? It's … true love."

"What are you?" Victor asked him. "A tweenage girl? 'True love'?"

Flack grinned. "Go to hell, Victor."

"True love?!" Lindsay echoed. "God. Oh … Oh God. How was I so stupid? I mean, I'm happy for him, I am, but … Oh God!"

Lindsay rushed away. Flack blinked.

"Now _that _was the reaction of a tweenage girl," Flack said. "What was that all about?"

Victor leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. He considered for a moment, then announced, "She's pregnant."

"WHAT!"

Passing orderlies and doctors glowered at Flack. He pulled Victor to a less busy waiting area.

"What do you mean? Pregnant?" he hissed at him. "How could you possibly know that?"

"People only panic that much when there's a child involved," Victor said. "I've spent my life reading people, Don. I know how certain things look."

"Nah!" Don protested. "I mean- No. It can't be."

"I'll bet you that it is," Victor said. "Twenty."

"Easy money," Don laughed. "You're on."

* * *

_And when there's nowhere else to run  
Is there room for one more son  
These changes ain't changing me  
The cold-hearted boy I used to be_

Yeah, you know you got to help me out  
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner  
You know you got to help me out  
You're gonna bring yourself down  
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down  
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down

I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier  
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier

**7:00 PM, January 20, 2010**

**Rosey Thorne's Bar And Grill, Manhattan, New York**

"I don't know if I can trust another bartender again in my life."

Mac laughed, shaking his head. He reached down to put a hand on Danny's shoulder. The wheelchair Danny was confined to for the moment had dampened his spirits, but had not quieted his opinions.

"I don't think Ms. Rose Thorne has any problems with the LGBT community, if that's what you mean," Mac informed Danny. "She owns this place with her girlfriend of seven years."

"Yeah, and she might be killing small animals in her spare time," Danny said. "Who knows?"

"Danny, you're a New York native," Mac said. "If you _weren't_ at least a little paranoid, I would worry. But this is too much."

"I don't mean it," Danny admitted. "I just haven't been in a bar since McCullen's. Bad memories. A few drinks, and I'll be over it."

"That's the Danny Messer I know. Come on."

The CSI team, plus Don Flack and Victor Shain, had a large table in the back of the room. Danny's memories of McCullen's faded even before he had any alcohol in his system. Thorne's place was large and open, with warm contemporary furniture instead of McCullen's replica antique pub furnishings. The woodwork had intricate etchings of roses on their thorny branches, interlaced with vines. Even the waitresses had a less hardened appearance. The biggest improvement, Danny thought, was that there was no sour-faced bigot behind the counter.

Mac helped Danny off of his wheelchair and onto the bench seating around one half of the table. He sat beside him, very close. Lindsay's eyes lit on this for a second, but then turned away. Stella distracted her, pulling her into light conversation.

"Ah, finally, some real food!" Danny exclaimed when they were all served. "Almost a week of hospital food, can you believe I survived that?"

"Hey, I know how it is," Flack said. "I've been having nightmares about hospitals all my life. At least you didn't have to go into that abandoned place out in New Jersey. I still feel like I need a shower to get the filth of that place off of me."

"Ugh, please, we're eating," Lindsay complained.

"You're CSIs!" Don pointed out. "You guys can eat after anything."

"And you're such a delicate flower?" Victor chuckled.

"Oh, me? You kidding?" Flack said. "I've brought sandwiches to the ME's office."

"He has," Mac confirmed. "Though I've never seen you _eat _them in there, Don. Not that we have to discuss these things _when we're eating_."

"Amen," Lindsay muttered.

"At least we're not like Sid," Hawkes said. "He told me once that he's seen almost every kind of food there is under a microscope. And get this: it was seeing organic matter under a microscope that made him want to be an ME. He said he figured he had already seen enough animals dead under a microscope, so it was time to see what the human animal looked like."

The entire table groaned.

"Where is Sid tonight?" Stella asked.

"He's working," Hawkes replied. "He might join us in a half hour. Tough shifts down there. Believe me, I know. I just got lucky tonight."

"How did you all manage to get the night off?" Danny asked. He looked around at each of them. "Oh come on! You didn't all take off just for me?"

"Now why would we do a thing like that?" Stella asked innocently. "It's just one of our own finally getting released from the hospital after an injury that could have been fatal. Why on earth would we have to celebrate that?"

Danny raised his eyebrows. "You're makin' me blush, Stel."

"Oh, I'm not done with you," Stella laughed. She raised her glass. "A toast? Yeah?"

"Oh no!" Danny moaned.

They all raised their glasses.

"To your recovery," Stella said. "And you **will **recover."

"You'd better, after we do a thing like this," Flack joked.

"To you, Danny," Mac said.

Danny saw the tenderness in his eyes, and actually did blush a little. He grumbled and complained, but they all tipped their glasses at him. He joined the toast, as an excuse to down a copious amount of his drink.

"And to the end of D3-ATS!" Flack added.

They all shouted simultaneously, "YEAH!"

"To the end of hatred," Mac said.

"And to love," Stella finished.

"To love," Lindsay echoed, a bit hollowly.

"To love," Hawkes repeated, with wistful hope.

Victor squeezed Flack's thigh under the table. Flack shot him a furious look, but it did not last. He mumbled the toast, while Victor raised his glass high and affirmed the sentiment with a dash of smugness.

Mac held Danny's hand. Danny had to smile. Whatever he could not feel in his legs, he felt this touch, and this moment. Their eyes met, unreservedly bright with feeling.

"To love."

_Yeah, you know you got to help me out  
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner  
You know you got to help me out  
You're gonna bring yourself down  
You're gonna bring yourself down  
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the backburner  
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down  
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down_

Over and again, last call for sin  
While everyone's lost, the battle is won  
With all these things that I've done  
All these things that I've done  
(Time, truth, hearts)  
If you can hold on  
If you can hold on

**THE END**


End file.
